


Enjoy The Ride

by soncnica



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Aftermath of a Case, Case Fic, Chaetophobia (don't read this if you have it), Curse Breaking, Cursed Dean, Disgusting Imagery, Explicit Language, Gen, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Mild Blood, Mystery, POV Alternating, Season/Series 02, Time Skips, Vomiting, Witch Curses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-22
Updated: 2014-08-23
Packaged: 2018-02-14 06:58:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 24,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2182251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soncnica/pseuds/soncnica
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean gets cursed, because he can't keep his paws to himself, when Sam says so. But Sam finds a cure, one which Dean will definitely not enjoy the ride on. So Sam has to play dirty.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. PROLOGUE

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I seriously only own the grammar/spelling mistakes. Everything else is NOT MINE! ALL IS FICTION.
> 
> A/N: If you suffer from Chaetophobia, please do not read this!

 

****

 

**April 4th, 1925**

The street was packed with people walking around minding their own business; they were always minding their own business these days – grim faced, hunched over with hands in their pockets and sadness in their eyes. Her mommy's hand in hers was warm, soft and a little sweaty, squeezing her little fingers tight, didn't wanna lose her in the mass of people. Her brand new black shoes were making a _taptaptap_ noise on the wet pavement, but she loved her shiny shoes, even if they were loud. They had a thin strap that buckled her foot in the shoe and she could see her white sock peeking through the hole at the top of her foot. It all went so nicely with her new brown-white dress and she smiled at Peggy Broadshoot across the road, because she had a new dress and new shoes, and Peggy didn't. She'd even stick out her tongue, but that was for babies and she was no baby.

She _taptaptap_ ed on, trying not to step into anything eww-y on the sidewalk, because she wasn't supposed to ruin her new shoes. Mommy said so and daddy did too.

She took a deep breath; whatever was being made in the nearby bakery smelled so good, it made her mouth water and she wanted some of it. Or maybe some sweets, she'd die for some sweets. Maybe something with raisins, she loved raisins. She looked up at her mommy and smiled when her mommy's hand brushed some of her red, thick, wavy hair out of her eyes.

"We'll go to the pharmacist next. Alright darlin'? Then the bakery. I promise."

She nodded. Her mommy's voice was sad, her mommy was always sad these days, and her daddy angry. They fought a lot too; sometimes she heard the word 'money' being screamed by her daddy's booming voice. She knew they had little of that as soon as there was no more meat on the table. But mommy promised they would visit the bakery and maybe, maybe she'd get something sweet and full of raisins. Raisins weren't expensive, right? It wasn't expensive to dry grapes, was it?

She felt a little tug on her hand and a bell ring out above her head when her mommy opened the door to the small pharmacy. It was the only pharmacy miles around and even people from the next towns came here for their medication. It was run by Mr. Burley, but he died a month ago, shot himself in the head, she heard her daddy say, which surprised her, because Mr. Burley was always so nice to her. Gave her a lollipop every time she came here.

But the new pharmacist was a weird fellow. His hair was black, really short and so slick with gel, it looked gross. He had a scar on his left cheek that went from the corner of his mouth all the way up to his temple, dividing his cheek in two. She heard her mommy and daddy talk about the man and how he got the scar in Europe, ways back, but she didn't pay that much attention. Europe was far, far away and she was ten years old, an age when everything felt huge and far.

She peered at him over the high counter and shuddered. It really was a nasty looking scar; all red and gaping still, even if it happened a long time ago. And when he smiled at her across the counter, she nearly swallowed her tongue. It was something foul in that smile; it split his mouth and the scar apart. It was appalling, 's what it was.

"Well hello there, sweetheart."

Even the words were repulsive, made her shiver all over and she hid behind her mommy's legs, gripping her mommy's white-green silky dress with her hands. It wasn't a new dress; her mommy had it since she could remember and she loved it, especially the big white daisies that decorated the front. Her mommy was so pretty, and when her dress fluttered in the early April breeze, she looked like an angel.

She peeked around her mommy's legs at the man wrapping something in white paper. He smiled to her – the scar gaping wide - and she gasped and hid her face in the dress again.

She felt her mommy's hand on the top of her head, steering her towards the door. The bell rang again and the doors closed behind her.

"Bakery now, darling."

And they walked down the street towards the bakery.

When she saw the man next, he was leaning over her, his teeth pointy and black, dripping blood like a leaky faucet. His breath was as vile as his words had been and the scar on his cheek pulsed with his smile.

"Hello, sweetheart."

His voice was as soothing as it was obnoxious.

She wanted her mommy. She wanted her daddy.

"Mommy!"

The last thing she ever saw was a serrated knife and a huge chunk of her beautiful red curly hair along with bloody skin being held up in his hand.

The she knew no more.

**June 7th, 1959**

"Well hello there, sweetheart."

The man leaning over the high, white counter was … horrible. If her mother didn't need the cough syrup for father she thinks they'd both run away screaming. The man reeked of something, but she didn't know what. It just smelled really bad and he looked disgusting what with that red scar looking like the Grand Canyon – she knew Grand Canyon, she had been there last year with grandpa and grandma - that seemed to wink at her when he smiled. She gulped and looked away, finding the display of pamphlets on her left awfully interesting.

Next time she saw him, she was screaming herself hoarse and gasping for breath. Through bleary, tears filled eyes she could see a low ceiling above her; cracked and mold-green with a brown stain right above her that she hoped was from water.

There was a burning pain coming from somewhere around her head and she screamed and breathed in air that smelled of decay; rotten eggs and mold.

The man's teeth were sharp and black when he appeared at her left side and whispered: "Hello, sweetheart."

He was leaning over her with pieces of her long, straight red hair held in one hand and bloody scissors in the other.

Then she knew no more.

**June 17th, 1995**

"Hello, sweetheart."

The man was as sleazy as he had been when she last saw him. But now ... now his teeth were sharp and long and dripping blood and his eyes were full of glee. He smelled of age, something rotten and decayed; like someone who should've been six feet under a long, long time ago.

She screamed up at the low ceiling with a piss yellow stain right above her head. She screamed for her mommy and for her brother. She screamed because her head felt as if it was light on fire. She screamed for her dad, even if he had been dead for three years now. She screamed and gurgled when she saw strings of her curly red hair get stuffed into a glass jar.

Then she knew no more.

**May 17th, 2006**

"Hello, sweetheart."


	2. CHAPTER 1

**Now**

Sam slowly opened the thin, plastic – felt like plastic, could be wood, who the hell could tell these days - door to the latest motel room they were staying in. It was a normal looking room, nothing special about it; had two beds with dark red blankets, two nightstands with two lamps and a Bible in each drawer. Had a table with three chairs, had a small couch and a black 'n' white TV standing on a small, dust covered table. It was … normal looking until one opened the bathroom. Dean's jaw fell to the floor when he saw it, and while that gave Sam a really good one and a half minute laugh, it all disappeared real quickly when he had to actually use it. He left the door opened a crack, because he really didn't want to be closed up in that psychedelic room; there was just no telling when clowns would jump out from somewhere behind a tree – the bathroom had blue, green, red, brown, yellow trees painted on the freakin' walls - and eat him alive. He tried really hard to imagine he was doin' business in a forest – nothing strange about that. Except that it didn't really help.

He kicked the thin door closed with this heel, his right hand holding a huge paper bag filled with doughnuts - breakfast of the champions - and his left full of coffee cups. They were gonna need lots and lots of caffeine in their veins to get through the day, because they pulled an all-nighter and that always scrambled with their eggs a little. He still felt like he could sleep for a few more hours, but no … they needed to get moving, needed to leave this town before anyone would connect the dots and realize it was them who burned down the old pharmacy. They really didn't need to get on anyone's radar right now.

He yawned and walked slowly – careful not to let anything slip from his hands – and quietly to the small, plastic table that was hiding in the far corner, right in front of a small kitchen sink. He didn't want to wake up Dean yet, because his brother fell asleep just three hours ago, after turning and twisting on the bed for ages, until he found a spot comfortable enough to actually fall asleep.

He knew it hadn't just been the case that was giving his brother so much trouble finding peace and comfort at night. It was dad.

He sighed and shook his head. It was too early to think about this. Too early to think of death and destruction and how very much not alright Dean was. After getting some coffee and food, then he'd think about it. But right now, they needed to hit the road. A new case was probably waiting for them somewhere, something probably needed to be killed and an early morning meant an early night. And, as unhealthy as it sounded, a new case and something to kill, would make Dean better. If only for just a little while.

He yawned again and placed their breakfast on the disarray of crumpled newspaper articles – dead, bodies, hair, ten year old, monster - police reports – hair completely cut off sometimes with the whole scalp, massive blood loss, found in the woods - and vomit inducing autopsy pictures – little girls, bloody and covered with white sheets - that were all over the table and saw from the corner of his left eye his brother … sitting up on his bed.

Awake.

Fully awake as in eyes open and not … asleep. Not snoring. Like he should've been, because he needed the rest.

"Uh, Dean?"

Silence. And silence wasn't something his brother did well. Dean was always noise and obnoxiousness, stupid jokes and snores and grumbles. Sure right now, so soon after … dad … his brother wasn't all there, wasn't all that he'd been before, but silence? Like this? Especially when there was the smell of doughnuts and coffee rolling around in the air?

Not good.

"Dean?"

His brother was a sprawled mess of limbs and glassy eyes; the thin blanket and the sheet were lying sideways on the bed like they'd been in a fight that they lost really, really badly. His back was to the headboard, his legs stretched out before him, his arms lifelessly lying beside him, like someone cut the strings and everything just … fell where gravity pulled it. The dark redness of the blanket made everything look like Dean was bleeding, or more specifically, had already bled to death all over the bed.

He looked dead; his face was pale, freckles standing out, sweat glistering on his forehead and upper lip, his eyes glassy and staring at the TV. That wasn't on.

Sure, after … their dad … Dean was a bit weird, but this wasn't that kinda weird. This was something new, something uncharted.

"Dean?"

He stepped a little closer to the end of the bed, scared out of his mind now that maybe Dean … maybe he really had bled to death.

"Dean?!"

Dean blinked when he bumped the end of the bed with his shins, hard enough to move the bed a little. And that got his brother's attention.

"I …," he cleared his throat, "… I touched it Sam."

Dean's voice sounded like it was coming from somewhere far, far away. Like his brother was drowning and trying to scream through murky water that was invading his lungs, making it impossible to breathe. It was fear – pure freakin' terror – in that voice and Sam … he didn't know what to do about it. Dean, scared? Those were just two very different things. Fear wasn't something they could afford, fear could get them killed, fear was only allowed in special occasions and Sam was sure he wasn't dying. So … shit.

"Dean..."

He put his own voice into a whisper and sat down on Dean's bed, his back touching Dean's calf. He put his elbows on his knees, washed his hands down his face – feeling tired, so damn tired - and sighed.

They were so, so screwed.

And it had been such a beautiful morning too. Sunny and warm and smelling of pines from the nearby forest and he went for a run, before picking up breakfast and coffee and everything was looking so great and the birds were singing and people were laughing and now this.

So screwed.

"What," he swallowed down the dread that was creeping all sour like up his throat, "… what happened, man?"

"Let's just ... not talk about it, okay? I touched it and that's that."

"Dude, I told you…" was a really dumb thing to say, but he said it anyways, because sometimes anger and Dean clouded his judgment on what was appropriate to say, but damn it … damn it, Dean. It wasn't as if they hadn't talked about this before going on the hunt. Do not touch anything. Do not even breathe or look at anything. And he know that he had been very specific about this, because he saw Dean nod and heard him say 'promise', but clearly something went wrong in that communication.

"Do you have a death wish? 's that it?"

Uh, probably not a very good idea to say that either, but again, anger and Dean mixing up in his brain made his mouth spill out shit he really shouldn't.

"What? No! Screw you, Sam."

Could he believe that? Because after … dad … Dean sure looked like he had plenty death wishes and a lot of opportunities to execute them. Maybe this was just one of them. How the hell should he know? Dean was a locked box right now, nothing coming out nor in.

"Okay, fine. So what the hell happened? I told you not to touch anything."

He wanted to look at Dean, but couldn't. He just couldn't tear his eyes away from a blue tree that was peeking out through a half opened bathroom door.

"Yeah well, there was no other option, okay? Can we just drop it and figure this out?"

His brother sounded pissed off wrapped in a flat tone. Like he had already given up and surrendered to his fate – the 'figure this out' part was just for Sam's benefit.

Well screw that.

He unglued his eyes from the blue tree and looked at Dean. His brother was still staring at the gray screen of the TV, but at some point he did move his hands into his lap and wiped away the sweat from his face.

He wasn't mad at Dean, not anymore. He believed him, that there was no other option to deal with the hunt, but to touch it. Because hell, if Dean did have a death wish, it probably wasn't to go down like this.

"Dean?"

"What?"

"You hurt anywhere?"

He expected for Dean to give him the stink eye and tell him to back off, but when his brother raised his right hand up from his lap and showed him his palm, for a second there, he didn't know what to do with it. He stared at the offered hand and thought 'will he bit off my arm if I touch him?'

"Uh…"

Dean wiggled his hand in front of Sam's eyes and said, completely flat and sounding like he was five: "It cut me."

His brows raised up in confusion, because: " _It_ cut _you_?"

That was new. He hadn't read about that anywhere. In the book that Bobby send them, all that was written - and he could quote it – was 'do not touch, but do find a way to burn it'. There were no words about the thing cutting anyone. And he knew Dean, if he cut himself, he'd say so. But his brother said that it cut him. Was it alive?

"You think … that it was, umm, alive?"

"Huh, could be, man. I mean … I remember grabbing it and then this sharp pain, but I didn't grab it that hard. Barely even held it. So … hmmm … could be."

Then something clicked. It clicked so hard in his head, that he barely contained a gasp, because … oh, uh, crap.

"Dean, I think …" he stopped himself, because really … should he share this with Dean? After all of this? After what happened? Should he tell his brother?

The answer was simple. Yes. Yeah he should, because Dean was smart and he'd figure this all out eventually and then he'd go all pissed at Sam for not sayin' anything and then they would have to drive around in awkward silence and that was just too stressful. So soon after … dad … it would just be too much to deal with. To have another thing between them that would hang over their heads.

But when he looked at Dean, he saw his eyes widen up and he knew that he waited a little too long to say anything, because Dean just figured it out too.

"Sam? Really? That thing was what the son of a bitch used to cut off the kids hair?"

"Dean…"

"Goddamn it."

"Dean, it was magic, okay? It probably, I don't know, turned into a knife or scissors or I don't know what, and when you touched it …"

"It turned into something sharp, right? Cut me? Poisoned me? Couldn't take my hair, because hello, not a redhead, but poisoned me anyway? Well, Sammy … that book Bobby send us? Is one useless piece of crap."

He chuckled. It wasn't one of those 'fuck this is so funny, I'm gonna pee my pants' chuckles. No, it was one of those 'fuck this is so messed up, I'm gonna end up in a psych ward' chuckles.

"Well, then we'll just have to write this in …" he swallowed his tongue. He couldn't say it. He couldn't say 'dad's journal'. He couldn't say it through the build of tears in the back of his throat. He just … couldn't. Even if they had that thing for almost a year and some change, but now … now it was all theirs. There would be no dad coming to collect at some point. It was theirs. The only thing they had of their dad.

" … dad's journal?"

Dean. The words were choked out, but … he said them. Made everything more real now.

"Yeah. In dad's journal."

They were silent for a while then. But it was a comfortable silence, one that felt _wrong_ to interrupt. There were noises coming in from the outside; people walking around, waking up, cars starting, TV's too loud, someone yelling 'Davy, come back here and eat your cornflakes!". And it was just so normal.

Even if Dean was coming closer and closer to feeling the full effects of the poison. Closer and closer to all _but_ dying.

"Show me the cuts." He whispered, because he didn't really want to see 'em, didn't want to see the things that'd bring his brother close to dying, but he knew he had to. Had to know. Had to know to describe everything to Bobby so that the old man would be able to find a cure. A way to fix this, because he was not gonna let his brother suffer. He was not and it didn't matter what it would take.

He gripped Dean by the wrist and looked at the palm. They were red. The cuts. Not infected, just red looking and … almost healed.

"They look like they're days old."

"Yeah, saw that. I just … damnit Sam."

He nodded, because yeah, damnit.

He didn't know what to do about the cuts, because they really looked all healed up and he wasn't gonna risk reopening them. Besides what had been done, had been done and there was no undoing it. No antiseptic or bandages or whatever would make Dean alright. Nothing, but a cure. A counter-spell, something.

"Yeah, okay, look ... just ...'s gonna be okay, alright?"

"Yeah, yeah ... sure. Whatever."

Neither of them believed a word they were saying. It was all lies, and lies they knew how to deal out.

"We have to get you someplace ... else. Somewhere where there are no people for miles around, okay?

Dean nodded.

"Dean..."

"Don't ... let's just ... I don't know ... go to Bobby's. Okay?"

"I don't know if we're gonna make it there in time, man."

"We still have some time, right?"

There was hope on Dean's face, in his eyes, his voice and Sam felt like an asshole having to break it, but…

"Dean," he sighed, "it's a long drive to Bobby's. Too long."

He would give anything, anything at all, to be able to take Dean to Bobby's, to take him somewhere his brother would feel comfortable enough to … scream out in unbearable pain … but there was no time. The drive would be too long, take away too much time that they could've spend searching for a cure.

"Shit."

They really were so screwed.

Just the thought of coffee and doughnuts waiting patiently to be munched on, made them both sick to their stomach. How could they eat, when in a few hours, Dean would be screaming his lungs out?

They packed their shit in record time and were on the road even faster. The motel manager didn't know what hit him when Sam slammed the credit card on his desk, mumbled something incoherent and ran away.

"We'll try to find a back road somewhere or a cabin or a house someplace... somewhere private, okay?"

"Yeah, yeah... I'll try not to..."

Sam whispered: " 's gonna be okay, Dean."

"Huh, yeah... I just... I think you should leave me wherever we stay and go... just... leave me there and come back after..."

"You're kidding right?"

His brother was a moron if he really thought he'd leave him alone to deal with this.

"No..."

"Shut up."

Sam drove on down the highway illuminated by bright, too bright sunshine. He had no direction, no plan other than drive, drive, drive and look for something private. Hidden. Didn't matter what; a barn, an abandoned house, a cabin, a freaking shack … didn't matter what, as long as it was hidden from prying eyes and ears and it had a roof. Preferably a bed too. But it was okay if there was no bed. The floor would be okay too.

They drove on some back roads, but there were always houses nearby, and they couldn't have that... couldn't have someone hearing them, hearing Dean.

Dean was good at hiding his pain, clenching his teeth and all, but he wasn't that good. No one was _that_ good.

This was going to hurt like hell.

"How you feelin' over there?"

He glanced at his brother and saw Dean rubbing his forehead and blinking way too rapidly.

"I … don't know. Kinda dizzy right now."

Shit.

"Gonna puke?"

"Naw, not that bad. 's just … whoah … uh, the road is a bit … spinning."

"Dean?"

"I'll be fine, just drive."

"I can stop for a minute."

"Just drive."

"Okay. Okay."

They needed a plan here, damnit. Needed a direction. Needed to call Bobby. They needed to find something … before … before Dean would start … showing signs. He couldn't call it 'all but dying'', not even in the privacy of his head, but that was what it would be.

All _but_ dying. Pain, nosebleeds, hallucinations, panic attacks, bruises that would form on his body, choking for air, he was already dizzy … all _but_ dying. He was gonna wish he was dying. But no such mercy would come, because Sam … he was not gonna … he wasn't. Could never.

He would find a cure. He still had some time left. And he had Bobby. And Bobby had books and connections and … they'd find a cure. They had to find something to make all of this easier on Dean. The thing poisoned him, cursed him, but not killed him, because like Dean said 'hello, not a redhead', but there was still a curse starting to work inside of Dean.

"Sam?"

"Yeah?"

He took his eyes of the road and looked at Dean.

There was a – river – of blood flowing out of his brother's nose, down his lips, dripping off his chin on his lap. Dean was trying to stop it with his hands, but that was like trying to stop rain from falling.

"Jesus, Dean!"

"I hnow, I hhnow … dampff it."

They didn't have a lot of time here.


	3. CHAPTER 2

**Three days ago **

_"Where the hell are you, man?"_

Sam's voice through the phone was half way too cheery and the other half way too anxious for Dean to handle it very well so early in the morning. Sure nine o'clock was late by some people's standards, but for him, it was waaaay too early. Especially when he spend more than half of the night staring at the ceiling, thinking over what their dad said to him. About Sam. About his baby brother. About dad's baby boy.

_Kill him? Kill his brother? Fuck, dad …_

But he had to keep his game face on. Had to be who he was before their dad died, because Sam mustn't know anything about this. Anything. He needed to suck this up, bring up his walls and go on with the game.

"Coffee, dude. Coffee. I have to get it every morning to stay alive. Don't worry, I have some girly crap for you too."

And he did. Black coffee with enough sugar to kill a horse and something that smelled of some kinda roasted nuts, although to him it smelled like burned coffee, but if that was what his brother liked, then who was he to deny Samantha that. He was no one. He was just a person who lost his dad, watched his body burn on a pile of wood in some no name forest somewhere. And now, all that he had was his little brother, who wanted to drink weird coffee. So who the hell was he to say no?

_"I have a case. Drink fast then we're out of here."_

And the phone line went from Sam yapping about something to silence in point one second. Dean poured the freshly brewed coffee – black, like a man was supposed to drink it - into his system and was at the motel room before Sam could start bitching about leaving him there alone without leaving a note. Or waking him up and taking him with.

"So, where's the case?"

"Tell you on the way, come on."

"Where's the rush?"

Because yeah, where was the rush? Was the world ending? Let it end, if that would mean that he wouldn't have to follow through or even just think about what his dad told him before he died.

_Kill him? Kill his brother? Fuck, dad …_

"Dude, just come on."

Dean raised his eyebrow, but didn't argue. Arguing would be pointless with Sam looking at him like that. Or well, with Sam not looking at him like that, because Sam was already half way out the door and half way inside the Impala.

His brother was just so weird sometimes. He was used to it – he had been living with the kid almost all of their lives – but sometimes some things still caught him by surprise.

"Alrighty then."

He closed the motel door behind him with a soft click.

The ride in the Impala was silent, except for the too loud music that burned Sam's eardrums. But he was pretty sure, his eardrums were already burned into ashes, with all those years spent like this … yeah, he was pretty sure his ears were a mess. But monsters … he always heard them. And Dean … he always heard him too. In tune with them, someone might say. In tune with his brother, that's what he would say. Although right now, he had no idea what was going on inside Dean's head. After their ... dad … Dean tried so hard to act like nothing was wrong, but he knew _everything_ was wrong.

He peeled his eyes from the side of the road, the moisture in them that he always carried these days, almost spilling over in the rapid movement.

He smirked, looking at his brother. Nothing has changed over the years. Tight jaw and focused eyes, hair plastered to his forehead by the summer heat, freckles on his cheeks that stood out on the pale skin. Tensed shoulders and his arms stretched out, gripping the steering wheel as it should be held. As he was taught by dad and what they'd been taught by dad, they never forgot. Be it about hunting, be it about driving or eating or drinking, be it about how the world worked and how it didn't … they'd never forget all the lessons their dad beat into them.

Dean's right hand was tapping the beat on the steering wheel, the silver ring clashing with the leather and the string that held the whole thing together. If the car would be silent, Sam would have heard the _clickclickclick_ of it. Somewhere deep inside … he felt it. All those years … and he could _feel_ certain noises only by casting a look at what was causing them.

"Dean?" he tried with a steady voice, barely a notch above the singer's.

No response from his brother, just eyes glued to the road. The long gray stretch of road that seemed endless in its voyage. Endless in time. They had driven down so many roads; long, short, wide, narrow. So many roads and they all felt the same. So endless. Sometimes he felt like his whole life was a road and that it would never end the way he'd liked it to end. But that was okay. He knew that no one ever got what one wanted. And that really was okay.

"Dean!" he yelled over the song that was pushing through the speakers.

Even yelling from the top of his lungs got him nothing. Just green eyes, turned on the road … not even twitching.

He bit his lower lip and reached his hand towards the radio, his fingers touching the knob. He could feel vibrations through his fingertips, the vibrations of the song, the melody and the chords. The voice, the drums, the guitar. But he didn't hesitate. He turned the knob and silence washed over him for a split second, before his brother's voice found its way to his abused ears: "Hey, whatcha doing? I was listening to that."

"Well, tough." he looked at Dean and caught a frown but that shifted real soon into an eye roll and a tight jaw.

 _Dean, please give me this._ Silence in this already noisy world. Jess's screams, the monsters screams, the victims pleas … the noise of the burning wood under his dad's body. He just needed silence. Just for this ride.

He could feel Dean's eyes on him from the moment he looked back out the window. He could feel that Dean knew, he could feel when Dean slid his eyes back on the road. Always on the road. Always moving from something to something. Away. Forward. Who the hell knew anymore? They just lost their dad, and moving felt right in some messed up way. Being in the Impala felt right, especially since Dean rebuild it and made it home again. Even with the rattling Legos in the vent.

The scenery was flying by with warp speed, as 'warp' as a '67 Chevy Impala could reach before being pulled over by the police. Or ruining the engine. And Dean couldn't have that. Neither of them could have that.

"'s nice here, isn't it?" he bit into his thumb, biting off some of the hard skin there. _It's nice,_ this _, you know?_

"If you think so." _What, riding like this?_

"I wouldn't have said it if I didn't mean it." _Yeah, riding like this, with my brother._

"Don't get your panties in a twist, jeez." Dean looked at the road ahead and how it was straight one second and weaving the next, "It's nice." _Just you and me, little brother, just you and me._

"So, uh, you wanna fill me in on the case?"

"Yeah, uh, yeah, so it started in 1925 when a Lily Callen disappeared, she was ten and no one heard anything, saw anything. She just disappeared one night and was found three days later. In the woods. Bled out. She had no hair on her head. As in no hair, no skin. Someone, uh, someone scalped her."

He shuddered and knew, just knew in his bones that Dean shuddered too. He didn't dare look at Dean from the file he was holding in his hands, because kids … that always hit hard.

"And uh, since then, every coupla years a kid disappears. Always a little girl, ten, eleven years old and always with red hair. Whatever we're up against, has a fetish with red hair," he shook his head, "I don't know, don't ask."

"Okay," he cleared his throat and eased up on the gas, wanting this drive to last a little longer, "do we know what it is?"

"I got a call from Bobby about this and he didn't say for sure, but he suspects it's a warlock or a witch … something in those lines. 'm gonna have to do some research on this."

"Damn I hate cases with witches of any sex. Magic, man, just makes me itchy all over."

"Yeah, tell me about it."

The sun was grazing over a meadow on the left side of the car. Resting its rays on the green and brown patches of grass, the sun tangling his heat with the dirt, making it crispy and brown. The road glowed in the sun, lines of heat rising from the asphalt somewhere in the distance, not moving when the Impala's wheels ran them over.

The meadow was a constant in his peripheral vision, Dean could see how the sun laid down its tentacles to place the heat on white daisies, yellow dandelions, violet alfalfas … and in the distance a farmer was cutting it with his state of the art lawnmower.

_He knows nothing about monsters and creatures that lurk in meadows. Poor lucky bastard. He has no knowledge of what skanks witches are, he knows nothing of magic and other crap. He doesn't know how it is when your dad tells you to kill your baby brother if you can't save him. He knows nothing. The lucky son of a bitch._

Dean shook his head and bit his tongue before he could say anything out loud and averted his eyes to the road. Always on the road. One would call it running away – from dad – but he knew it wasn't running. It was being at peace. It was moving forward; towards another case, another chance to save people, another chance to slice and dice and shoot and chop another son of a bitch that was taking lives.

_Took their dad's life._

But even the yellow summer sun couldn't make the road look … not chilling. Couldn't make it look not old. So traveled on. So close. Dean could feel it under him, flying under the wheels, under his hands. He could touch it through his palm … the road was the only constant he had in his life. Not even Sam was that, because Sam left for a few years. While the road stayed and stretched into infinity.

The sun tried to help the road in concealing things that made a road alive ... feet, wheels, throwing up, music, lovers quarrels, laughter, break lines, damage from the rain and now, little pebbles, speed … death, but it didn't work. All those things were still there, in plain sight, if one just looked closely enough.

"Did he say anything else? Any clues?"

"No just that we can call if we need anything. So …"

"We're on our own, basically."

"Well, yeah."

_Because, dude, when are we not on our own?_

"Okay then. Let's go gank us a witch," he rolled his eyes, "or a warlock."

He pushed the pedal to the metal and …

"Ewwww, man. We hit a bug."

"What?" Sam looked at the windshield and saw the yellow dot in the middle of the glass.

"'s all yellow and crap looking."

"We hit millions of bugs…"

"But this one's huge. Look at the mess … oh baby 'm so sorry, I didn't mean too, the mean bug just came out of nowhere."

Sam wasn't really sure when Dean stopped talking to him and started a conversation with the Impala, but he found it amusing. And … he had missed this. Missed Dean talking to the Impala, as if it was a human and not a car and … he had missed this. If Dean hadn't rebuild it, if he hadn't … what … where … the Impala was their life, from the army men in the ashtray, to their initials carved into its body, and the Legos in the vent … Dean rebuild their lives … and dad, was still dead.

He closed his eyes. _Dad…_ and opened them back up, cleared his throat and just went with it. If Dean wanted to wail over a bug hitting the car's windshield, then who was he to not play along? He was no one. He was just someone who lost his dad and trying to not lose his big brother too.

"A bug committed a suicide on your baby's window?"

"Shhhhh, baby don't listen to the big, mean man. We'll get you cleaned up in a sec."

"Dean, you're talking to a car."

"Sam, shut your piehole."

And he turned up his baby's windshield wipers. The water first smudged the yellow gut of the bug into an even bigger smudge and after a few seconds of struggles with the damn thing the wipers finally wiped it off.

"There. See baby? All better." He grinned at Sam and then at the road.

The tiny droplets of water quickly dried off, lost themselves in the heat and the wind. The ones that remained reflected the sun and the clouds, flickering light into Sam's eyes, making him squeeze them into mere slits.

"D'ya know where my sun glasses are?"

"Aaaa," _I sat on them 3 years ago_ , "try in the glove compartment." Dean listened to Sam shifting various things left and right, heard things rustling, something falling on the floor and saw Sam lean in to get it, some more rustling and a click.

"Not there."

"Well, I, ah, use mine."

"Where?"

"In the glove compartment."

"You mean that piece of old plastic?"

"Hey, if you don't want 'em…"

"They're covered in mustard; they slipped from my hand earlier and fell on the floor. No, thanks." he wiped his hands on his jeans.

"You dropped 'em. 's not my fault they're dirty."

"Well they are. You got mustard on them. I know you eat with your eyes too, but that's just gross man."

"Take it or leave it."

"Leave it. Definitely." He settled back into his seat, the soft leather already designed to his butt when the smell hit him. It hit him hard and it hit him fast. A warm breeze through the open window was all it took for him to slide back on the seat and sigh.

"Smells good." softly.

"What? The manure or the one week old hamburger wrapper?" Harsh.

"The grass, you idiot." Harsh.

"Oh, yeah. Ah, yeah." softly.

And it did smell … fresh. Dean looked at the man mowing the grass, the tiny stems falling dead underneath the sharp edges of the mower. Losing battle … a familiar feeling. Losing everything. Losing your family … life. Home.

_Dad…_

"Yeah." softly.

Sam looked back at the dirtier side of the road, the pebbles and throw away cans, and paper wrappers and dead animals. Yup, he got a really nice view … like always. A panoramic view of all things dead. If he could find any humor in it, he would have thought that it was his life he was looking at through the window. All things dead.

And the smell of grass followed his every movement; he scratched his head and removed a wayward lock of hair from his eye. He crunched up the map and the file with their latest case information and sneezed. Three times going on five.

"Can you close the window?" it was more of an order than a plea.

"Why? It's freaking hot in here." Annoyance.

"Unless you want to listen to me sneeze every three seconds…" going on seven sneezes and a half.

"You," a hand towards the window, "are," gripping the handle, "such," fidgeting with the handle, "a pain," the window going up, "in," and up, "my," up and up, "ass." And the window was closed.

"But you still closed the window." He showed Dean his biggest grin ... all white teeth and dimples.

"Shut up, Sammy." An eye roll.

"'s Sam." calmly.

"No," a look towards his brother, "it's," a tug in the corners of his lips, "Sammy." and a full smile.

"Jerk."

"Still a bitch, Sammy."

"Not gonna fight with a child."

"Who you calling a child, stupid?"

"Well unless that's a baby fly stuck in the back window, ahhh, you."

"Says the baby in the family."

Sam gritted his teeth and smiled. A dimpled smile in the midst of the black interior of the hot car. It felt good to smile … even if it hurt like hell.

Looking at the dead side of the road, Sam didn't even notice when the music came back on. But with his already ruined hearing … who could blame him? But it wasn't as loud as it was before. It was quiet, like holding onto the edges of falling into silence. It was a background noise, an accompanying symphony to their breathing. A noise he could bare. A noise that he could wrap away for later. It's been a while since they left their previous hunt, two days maybe. Or three nights. It didn't matter anyway. They were just enjoying a drive to their next hunt … there was no nervousness, no fidgeting, just coolness and togetherness. They've done this a million times already and one more time shouldn't make any difference. But there was something different.

There was no dad somewhere in America. There was no dad anymore anywhere.

"Is this making you nervous?"

"What?"

"This hunt?"

"Why?" _Ah, the tense shoulders, the tight jaw, the conversation that is slipping into nothing, the music, the pale skin…_

"Nothin'."

"Sam?"

"'s just that," he found a loose string in his pants, "kids, ya know," his palm became sweaty as he twirled the string around his finger, "'s never easy when kids are involved," he tightened the string, cutting off blood supply to the tip of his finger, "and witches, man," he could feel his fingertip going numb, "stuff like that never ends well."

"I feel fine, Sam. We'll deal with this, save some villagers and be on our merry way. It's what we do, or have you forgotten that? Stanford didn't ruin you that much, right?"

Sam let go of the string and flinched as blood begun to flow into his finger again. Dean saying that he felt fine was a bunch of horse crap. His brother wasn't feeling fine, he was hiding stuff, burying it deep, deep inside and it was just a matter of time when all of it would explode in the form of guts and heads and limbs flying everywhere. And blood. Lots of blood, because Dean liked to do things bloody.

"Okay, fine." he resumed his 'keeping my mind of the hunt and dad' routine … keeping himself busy darting his eyes over the map, busy counting the miles, calculating them into hours, busy listening to the song, busy listening to Dean fighting with his stomach.

"Hungry?"

"Could eat a horse."

"I don't know about a horse, man."

"A big steak, or hamburger, better make it two hamburgers. And some French fries. Can't have a hamburger without French fries. Oh and a Coke. And I need me some pie." He emphasized his words with his hand rubbing a small circle over his stomach.

Sam's own stomach rolled a few times, making a squealing noise as it stopped on the thought of food. He swallowed down a thick ball of saliva and could taste a hamburger of his own in there. And some salad; can't have a hamburger without salad.

"What happened to a horse?" Sam chuckled and gripped the map with both hands as it was on its way of sliding down his legs.

"I made it into a hamburger. Now, tell me how far?" his eyes never wavered from the road, the line separating the lanes making him dizzy. Flying by way to fast to be normal, and he eased off the gas pedal again. No need to hurry today … just enjoy the ride. Just enjoy the day, before he'd have to kill whatever creature was praying on the kids. Killing them. Kids. Godamnit. Sam would have to do research with the speed of light, because he wanted this _thing_ dead yesterday. Years ago.

"Uh, not far. Just a couple of hours. You 'kay to drive?" the last words just slipped out, he wasn't really sure what unnatural force made him say it. Because denying Dean driving? What the fuck was he thinking? That was like one of the great sins. But truth was, he really had no idea how to handle his brother right now. Dean was slipping out of control, spinning from 'all is fine' to 'killing things furious and bloody and efficiently'. He had no idea how to handle Dean right now. What to say to him that wouldn't set him off, that wouldn't make him pissed at him, that wouldn't make him yell at him and leave him behind with the door banging in his face.

Dean gripped the wheel tighter in his hands and let his eyes seek out Sam's: "You serious?"

A blank mind was all Sam had at the moment and two words managed to escape: "Never mind."

But still … he had to try, even if that would've resulted in a fight and broken bones or soul. His brother had been driving for a while now, and somewhere along the way … that would come out to play.

"Just let me drive, alright? I'll tell you if I wanna stop."

And there it was. The tension. That great divide, the freaking Grand Canyon between them that appeared when dad died and they just didn't know how to fix. That anger. Resentment? Secrets.

Sam sighed and tried to relax into the seat. It was hard to do this, when he never knew what would set his brother off. It was hard to stay strong and brave when all he wanted was to scream _stop_ and cry his eyes out.

It was hard watching his brother be like this. So hard. And what was even harder was waiting for the moment when everything would become too much and Dean would lose it. That … that was the hardest thing to do. Because he wasn't sure how he'd handle it. How he'd be there for Dean, when really, he felt as broken as Dean did.

But right now, he just wanted to find the quickest route to a diner and then to a motel. That was on his shoulders and all the rest was on Dean's. Then they would settle down, do some research and kill the evil son of a bitch that had been ripping kids from their families for decades. Probably centuries, depending on what the hell they were dealing with.

And then? Then they'd do this all over again; drive down an endless road to their next case.

**A day ago**

The motel they were staying at was called The Daisy Day motel, but there was nothing daisy about it. It had blood red bed covers, grimy windows, and a bathroom full of trees. Painted on the wall trees, but trees nonetheless. Colorful trees. If one would take some drugs and go hide in the bathroom, woooheeee, what a joy ride that would've been.

Dean had been stuck to his bed and the TV, while Sam'd been stuck to the table and his laptop throughout the two days they'd been in the room, both of them giving the bathroom sneaky glances, both of them freaked out by the trees in there. In the 'real' world – the one out there, behind the four walls of the room - trees could hide many a thing, and who was to say – with the crazy they've seen – that the trees on the walls couldn't hide many a thing as well.

They'd been all over the small town since they arrived in this god forsaken place, talked to the mother of the latest victim – Angie had been her name, with hair the color of strawberries – talked to some of the townsfolk, got so much information that at one point Dean's head started to spin and he thought he was having a brain melt down, printed out all the newspaper articles they could find, been to the morgue, been to the little police station, did all they normally do but what made them go _eureka_ had been Sam's little sneeze fest he had in the car two days earlier. The smell of grass, yeah right … it had been a minor sneeze fest then that went and morphed into a big sneeze fest until they were forced to visit the little – archaic – pharmacy on the main street.

For something against the sneezing, because they needed sleep and sneezing every five minutes would not bring them that. And to stock up their first aid kit, because they were low on … basically everything.

"Hello there, fellows. What can I help you with?"

And that was all it took for Sam's eyes to widen in the _eureka_ moment and for him to splutter something that sounded like 'uh nothing, gotta go, thank you, bye' and run out of the pharmacy like a clown had been on his ass.

All Dean could manage to say was 'uh' and point to his temple, making a circular motion with his finger and run after his brother.

He said it a million times already and he would say it a million times more, but his brother was just so weird sometimes.

"What the hell, Sam?"

They were standing on the sidewalk, getting dirty looks from the passerby's, because they were blocking their way. Whatever. They were here to save them, save their daughters, and that gave them the goddamn right to stand wherever they goddamn wanted.

"Dean, the pharmacist…"

"What?"

"It's him."

Sam's voice was a whisper; like he just shared the biggest secret to end all secrets to his brother, although by the way they were acting – all nervous and suspicious and shifty and standing there in front of the pharmacy like the idiots that they were, giving out all kinda signals and red flags to the pharmacist who was watching them from behind the counter – Sam could've screamed it at the top of his lungs, for all it mattered.

"Dude, we're not suspicions standing here at all, come on." he grabbed Sam by his shoulder and pulled him further down the sidewalk, giving the pharmacist a little wave and a grin; nothing to see here, buddy, we'll come kill ya a little later you son of a bitch.

They stopped by a little café, the smell of coffee wrapping itself around them, making Dean's mouth water, but … now was not the time for leisure and pleasure of the coffee kind, now was time to get down to business, because his little brother sniffed out a clue and a clue often turned into the case halfway done and that … meant Dean got to kill something.

Freakin' finally, because this dry spell of not killing anything had to end. He itched to grab his gun and squeeze the trigger, one, two, three times, or as many times as it would take. He itched to feel the handle of his favorite knife in his palm, chop, chop, slice and dice. He itched to do something, and to stop this sitting on his ass, he had been doing for some time now. He needed to kill something that wasn't his brother. Wanted to see death that wasn't his dad.

"Okay, how do you know?"

Sam huffed and leaned further down towards Dean, trying not to scare the people who were going in and out the café. Because talking about warlocks and red-headed little girls was a sure fire way to get noticed. And they couldn't afford to get noticed.

"I saw him on a picture. In one of the newspaper articles. Dude, a scar like that, I'd never forget it."

"So?"

"The article was from nineteen thirty-three."

"Oh."

"Yeah."

"Okay, but next time, don't go weird like that. You know better than to freak out like that, okay? You probably tipped him off. Idiot."

Sam rolled his eyes. He had no intention to argue. He couldn't. He didn't have the strength in him to argue with Dean right now.

He sighed and followed his brother down the sidewalk.

And here they were now. Sam behind the laptop and on the phone with Bobby, multitasking both and a cup of coffee and Dean on the bed staring at the picture of the guy – the same guy they saw earlier – in the article.

The scar, the hair, the nose, the eyes, his everything. Exactly the same. And the picture was from 1933, for Christ sake and the dude hadn't aged one tiny bit.

He wanted to go hunt down the son of a bitch. He could already feel adrenaline starting to build up in him, his eyes clouding over, the need to shoot or burn something so strong inside of him, that it scared him for a second, but just a second, because then he looked at Sam, looked at his brother who was hunched over the laptop, typing furiously while speaking with Bobby on the phone. His brother, who he was supposed to kill. The man who was trying so damn hard to save others, giving up everything, giving up sleep and food and ruining his eyes with the glow of the computer … how … how could he kill him? What the hell was his father thinking?

He could never … ever …

"'kay, thanks Bobby."

He took a sip of his too warm beer and shook his head. He could never kill Sam. If Sam would go dark side or whatever his father thought would happen to him … they they'd go down together. Drive off a freakin' cliff or eat a bullet, but he was not gonna kill his baby brother. No matter what and his dad can just …

_Oh God, dad…_

He cleared his throat, getting that pesky warm and choking feeling to go back down to the depths of his soul: "Found anythin'?"

"Yeah," he watched Sam stretch his arms up to the ceiling and move a little to the right and a little to the left, getting his muscles to unlock, "man, I found too much. This is just … this is just … disgusting, 's what it is, man."

Dean finished the bottle of beer and put it on the night stand. Disgusting? Disgusting was what they did. Disgusting, nasty, gross, weird, creepy … that was what they dealt with. They were like pest control – seen it all and more but still kept on going at it.

"Talk to me."

"Well, it is a warlock. And he's been, or well, is still, using red hair for spells, cures and by cures I mean ointments, syrups, creams, pills … you name it."

"Seriously?"

"Not kidding, man. Seriously."

The beer suddenly tried to make another appearance, but Dean swallowed it down.

"That's as nasty as it is disturbing. Why?"

"I don't know. Bobby send me some pages of a book … says here that red hair had been used in some healing processes and for certain spells and I guess the pharmacist … well, dude, he's a pharmacist. Do I need to explain more?

"Uhh, please don't."

He would very much love to keep that beer down. He would very much love to drown that beer in whiskey, but one couldn't always get what one wanted.

"Yeah…"

"Okay, so," he clasped his hands, "how do we kill it?"

"Well the book says to burn what holds the warlock's power, but, and Dean, I'm quoting this, do not touch, but do find a way to burn it."

"Burn what?"

"I have no idea. Something that's giving him power. Could be anything really."

"Okay, so we'll improvise."

"How?"

"Well it has to be something that he has on him or close to him at all times, right? Because he needs that power. So … when we get to his little pharmacy of horror, we'll see what he holds near and dear."

"Dean, that's …" _suicidal._

"Sam…" _I know, okay, but I need this asshole dead, no matter what it takes._

Sam nodded and looked down at the keyboard, seeking answers for what the hell to do with his brother. All the keyboard gave him was a jumble of letters in no order at all … just like his brother was at the moment. A mess of things out of order.

_Damn it …_

"Anything else?"

"No. Just burn the thing and don't touch."

"Okay, so burning yes, touching no. Got it."

"Dean…"

"What?"

"Promise me you won't touch a thing. Don't even look at anything, don't even breathe on anything."

"Dude, what am I? Five?"

"Dean, please …" _I can't lose you, okay? I can't…_

"I promise, okay? Happy now? Can we just…" he sighed, because he really didn't want to fight with Sam right now. He was this close to hunting mode and one step over the line and he'd hurt his brother and he didn't want that. They were both hurting enough without any physical pain added to it.

"… can we just get ready, go, burn, and leave?"

"Yeah, okay."

They were both so very tired.

"We leave tonight?

"Damn right we go tonight! I wanna burn me some warlock or well the thing that gives him power, although 'm hoping he'll burn too."

Sam chuckled, because damn right Dean wanted to kill/burn/slaughter something, and the warlock was just at the right place at the right time.

"So? Anything else about him?"

A freaking pharmacist of all things. Someone who hands out drugs for a living. Jesus Christ, but some assholes are cunning, Dean has to give 'em that.

The warlock had been alive for centuries, luring redheaded little girls into his secret labs all over the world for freakin' centuries. Centuries. Not just years or decades, but centuries. Seven to be exact, or so the book said.

Seven centuries of cutting off little girl's hair – and killing them - to use it for spells and cures; syrups (oh dear God but that one made him puke a little in his mouth) and pills and ointments (he gagged a bit with that one, because seriously?) and shit and that just had to end. You don't just go around cutting off little girls red hair and making syrup out of it and live to see another day. It had to end.

And ending it had been relatively easy actually, easier than most crap they faced in the past. Which of course should have been Dean's first clue that something was wrong. Wrong as in very, very wrong.

But moving among all the glasses of weird liquids and boxes of 'I don't wanna know what's in there' and more glasses in which red hair was swimming in, floating in, there was no time to think shit through. It was do, act and kill. Now, now, now, before the warlock could cast a spell on them or blast them into next year or a few years in the past, never mind the details.

"Seriously? A black robe? Imagination ain't your strong suit, huh?"

"Hunter, you mock me, but I can see … your soul … you are unwell."

"Oh God, a speech? Seriously?"

The warlock's head tipped to the side, thinking, contemplating, seeing: "You carry something on your soul, it is making you sick, making you hurt. I can help you with that."

He rolled his eyes: "Please, shut the hell up."

He wanted to shut the warlock up the old fashioned way – a fist to his face – but he had a plan and if he'd have to listen to the crazy to get the plan to work, then he'd do it. All part of the job.

"Hunter, I have been alive for seven hundred years, I have seen your kind kill and be killed, have seen it all, but you … you are something else, hunter. Your soul shines very bright, while his," he pointed at Sam who was lying very still by a wall, "shines very dark. I can help you with that too."

"Okay, let me guess. Gonna give us a potion, made of little girls hair, right? And that's gonna make us all okay?"

He needed just a few more minutes and then all this fucked up crap spilling out of the warlock's mouth would be gone.

"Of course. It is the best cure, after all, as it holds courage, passion, beauty, anger, fire. Blood. Sacrifice. All things you know best, am I correct, hunter? And people who came here in search for cures to aid their diseases, their illnesses got them. I was doing nothing wrong."

Dean wanted to puke. He really, really wanted to puke all over the dirty, cold cement floor.

"Oh so, killing little girls and scalping them was doing nothing wrong?"

The warlock grinned, the scar opening up and leaking something that looked like pus or blood, Dean had no idea, but it made him nauseas even more than he already was.

"The … stain … on both of your souls … it is sacrifice and anger. Martyrs, hunter? Really? The red you two share smells so … interesting. So strong. Especially in him. His … blood smells black. Fascinating."

He clenched his jaw and gritted his teeth, because goddamn it. Son of a bitch. _He_ was starting to see red, anger flowing in his veins, a snake ready to attack.

"Oh, I know you two are brothers, hunter. I can smell red between you, the blood … it smells the same, yet not."

The warlock's teeth were sharp, pointy and black and he was close enough now that Dean could've grabbed that damn stick and burn it.

"'m glad we can entertain you."

The warlock squinted his eyes: "There is no need for a sharp tongue, hunter. I am just telling you the truth. You and he are blood, connected by fire, but he is danger while you are sacrifice and red can fix both of you."

What was the son of a bitch talking about? He had heard of crazy, hell he had seen crazy, but this was crazy with crazy on top and crazy on the side.

He had enough. It was enough. It was all enough. He rose up from the ground and charged at the warlock, knocking him down to the ground, grabbing the warlock's - staff?, stick?, twig?, branch?, he'll go with stick – and ripping it from the warlock's tight grip. They figured out very quickly that the stick was what stored the warlock's power – his magic – when the warlock raised it up and send Sam flying to the opposite wall.

"Ha ha, got it."

He flinched when he felt something sharp bite at his palm, but forgot about it a second later because the warlock was looking at him and smiling.

He looked at the stick; it was made out of wood, probably made of some ancient tree species that no longer existed on this world anymore, and when he light it up, it caught fire like it was made of gasoline. Which should have been Dean's second clue that something was horribly, weirdly, terrifyingly wrong.

"Huh …"

Was all he said when he dropped the burning stick to the concrete floor of the mad warlock's creepy laboratory under the pharmacy.

"Well would ya look at that crazy ass twig burn."

He looked at the warlock and how fire was starting to eat him from the feet up. The warlock's smile – that gross scar puking out even more blood or pus - should have been his third clue that something really was so wrong on so many levels.

And the fourth clue? The biggest one of all? The warlock laughing: "You touched it, hunter." just before the flames rose up his whole body and turned him into ashes.

But before he could get any deeper into the weirdness of it all, Sam came around with a groan and a feeble attempt to get from his ass to his feet. Dean just hoped that everything was okay with Sam's head, because they had to get out of here before the police would come snooping around and find them among jars of floating red hair.

"You 'kay, Sam?"

"'m fine, yeah …"

Sam's eyes were a bit huge, bigger than normal, but he seemed coherent which was okay in Dean's book and meant that they could haul ass and run.

"Okay, come on. We have to go."

He grabbed Sam's arm and pulled him up.

"You missed all the fun, man."

"Did you burn the stick?"

"Hell yeah. Burned like dried grass."

"You didn't touch it, right?"

Uh-oh.

"Umm, let's go."

Well shit then.


	4. CHAPTER3

**Now**

"I hnow, I hhnow … dampff it."

They didn't have a lot of time here.

"Dean, Jesus … there are some napkins in the glove compartment."

"Tyeah…"

He leaned forward, trying not to bleed all over his jeans and the car and searched for the damn napkins, like his life depended on it.

When he finally managed to push them against his nose he sighed and leaned his head back, closing his eyes.

This was not good. This was so bad. The dizziness, the nosebleed, and then … then other stuff would start happening that he didn't want to go through, but would just have to. Suck it up and be a man and suffer through. He just needed to get rid of his brother, because no matter what all kinds of crap they've been through during their lives, his baby brother really didn't need to see him writhe from pain and scream himself hoarse. His brother … he needed a normal life, he didn't need to watch his big brother suffer and make an ass of himself.

His brother didn't need to die.

What was his Dad thinkin'?

He sighed and swallowed down the fear - that tasted suspiciously like he'd been licking a rusty nail - that was slowly creeping up his throat. This was so gonna suck ass.

"How you doin'?"

"Fine."

He mumbled through a stretched neck and a wad of blood-soaked napkins pressed to his still leaking nostrils. This was _not_ fun. At all.

But it was a situation he was in and he was gonna see it through. He wouldn't die, it wasn't a death sentence, but it sure would feel like it was. He sure would be wishing death would come take him away into blissed nothingness.

But he knew he wouldn't get that. Because he was never that lucky. They never were that lucky. All they got was maybe passing out, but even unconsciousness didn't – couldn't - last forever.

"Still dizzy?"

He … was. A little bit, not as much as before the river of blood spilled out of his nose, but he still felt a bit shaky. Spinning. But he could handle that. That was nothing. A little merry-go-round and a nosebleed? Easy peasy. He could handle that completely okay. It was everything else that he wasn't sure he would be able to handle.

"Yeah. A bit."

"Okay, just keep the napkins there, 'm gonna call Bobby."

He nodded, because if he'd speak, he'd choke on something. Terror, probably. So he stayed silent and listened to the sounds of the road.

There were none, because they were driving down back roads that were either used only a few times a month or not been used in a while.

But there was sun on his face, warmth and his brother's voice in his left ear.

It would be soothing and probably put him to sleep if not for that one little pesky thing …

… he didn't want to hurt. He had enough hurt in his short life to last him until the end of his days. Usually pain was just something that happened, that was, that came and then went, but this … anticipation was what was killing him. Was what was making him _scared_.

He was scared.

Out of his mind scared.

And he wanted his Dad and he wanted his brother, but he couldn't have them.

Dad was dead and Sam … his little brother … he looked to his left, observing Sam talk on the phone and steer the wheel, but it was okay, because the road was empty and Sam drove snail slow and looking up for a cure.

He was gonna be saved. And he would save Sam from whatever his Dad was talking about.

He would not kill Sam, because Sam would never kill him.

"Okay, thanks Bobby. Thanks." He threw the phone in his lap and gripped the steering wheel again. Tight. He didn't put pedal to the metal like he wanted to – God he wanted to drive and drive and drive so far away that the pain would never catch up to Dean, but he knew that was stupid and that if anything their Dad taught them well, was to never run away from anything. No matter what was coming at them, they should never run away, but stop and look it right in the eye. Face it. Be strong, smile and say _die you son of a bitch_.

Dad …

He looked at the road. The back road he took was all gravel with lush green bushes growing at its side. It was … peaceful. Beautiful. A place where they would normally stop, grab a beer, sit on the hood of the car and stare into the beautiful, clear blue sky. Then, they'd be too buzzed to drive and would just spend the night in the car. If everything was alright, that's what they would've done. But nothing was alright. Nothing.

"What did he say?"

Dean's voice cracked on the words. His brother's voice cracked; that hadn't happened since … dad dying.

Oh God …

He didn't take his eyes of the road, just slowed down a bit, as not to hit any big rocks, because then his brother would have a stroke and that was not the way this was supposed to go down.

"He talked to a guy named Rufus, said there's a cabin we can go to, a few more miles down the road, then left, three miles into the woods. Said it would be okay to stay there. Said it ain't much, but …"

… but you would be able to lie down. Have some rest, before … maybe have some sleep. We'd have shelter, somewhere where there would be no one to hear you.

He didn't say all that, because he was certain that Dean knew.

"Damffn it, just damffn it."

"Yeah…"

Because yeah. Damn it Dean.

He took a breath and steered the car around a big ass rock. No stroke for Dean. Not until his brother was ninety-nine and some change years old. It wasn't a realistic thought, he knew that, but it was a thought that made him sleep through some nights.

"Look man, we'll go there and we'll deal with this, alright? I asked Bobby if there's a cure for this or … or a counter spell or just anything, and he said he'll look into it, because every curse has a cure, right. But listen, in the meantime, let's just …"

… deal with this.

"Deal with this."

"Yeah."

He drove. Because there was nothing else he could do. But drive and hope that Bobby or that Rufus guy would come up with a cure or something, anything that would save Dean.

Save him or at least not make him suffer so badly.

Because every curse had to have a cure. It had to. Those were the rules.

Damn it.

A few more miles down the gravely road got them to a crossroad. Sam took the left road. It was gravel again. He hadn't seen asphalt for hours and the non-bitching from his brother about all of this was more worrisome than anything else.

"Dean?"

"'m good."

"Dizzy? Bleeding?"

"Naw, it stopped awhile back. Still a bit dizzy though."

"Okay. We're almost there."

When he looked at his brother, though … he saw a bruise on his left cheek. _That_ wasn't there an hour ago.

"Dean?"  
"What?" his brother snapped, looking straight ahead through the windshield, not moving his eyes from the road.

"You sure you're okay?"  
"Yes, I _am_ fine."

"Don't … damn it Dean," he hit the steering wheel, "don't lie to me."  
"Hey! Watch it. And 'm not lying."

"You have a," he cleared his throat, "bruise on your cheek."

"What?"  
He pressed his hand on his cheek and hissed.

"Sam…"

They looked at each other.

Their eyes were filled to the brim with fear. Sam for Dean and Dean for whatever the day would bring.

"Drive faster, Sam."

He didn't need to be told twice.

The road to the cabin was … narrow. And gravel again, with some dried dirt that was more dust than mud it most certainly was before the sun sucked all the moisture out of it.

There were tall trees with lush, bright green leaves on low branches caressing the roof of the car as Sam drove it to the cabin.

And then he stopped the car. It felt as if the world stopped. Because they were here. Here, where if Bobby won't find a cure or something, Dean would … suffer. He didn't want his brother to suffer. He hadn't wanted his Dad to die. He didn't want any of this. He just wanted a simple hunt. Not this. Not _this_ ; hadn't Dean suffered enough? Hadn't they both?

But this was pain … would be pain. They were used to pain. He hoped Dean was used to pain.

The cabin was … small. Just some wood – it looked more like thick, long logs actually - nailed together to make four walls. It really, really wasn't all that much and he was afraid that some strong wind would knock it over. But it probably wouldn't, because it looked old. Used. Worn down by age and the environment it was in. But it looked … inviting. Looked like the sort of place that knew how to keep something safe. Keep something a secret. Keep his brother's screams hidden.

He looked at his brother who was leaning his head back to the bench seat, holding blood soaked napkins against his nose. His fingers had some dried blood on them.

It made him sick. Pain was pain, but blood was blood. It was different.

"'kay here we are. Let's get inside."

The Impala's doors creaked like always when they opened and closed. It was familiar. It was soothing.

The air was cool when it hit them, smelling of dirt and freshness; cooped up in the car for so long it was nice to smell something other than sweat, blood and anticipation of the worst.

They needed no words when they went to the trunk and grabbed a duffle of clean clothes, two shotguns, salt and two blankets. If they needed something else, Sam would go get it. Because he would be the only one who could.

"There's no key, Bobby said to just pick the lock. Said that it didn't matter, key or no when hunters could pick locks."

"Ha."

Sam thought that maybe this was the last time he'd see Dean smile for a while. He soaked it up as much as he could and then leaned on the door to nudge it open.

The first thing that hit them and made them stumble, was dust. Big particles of dust flying in the sun filled air, getting into their noses and open mouths. Into their hair and onto their clothes. Dust. Lots of it. Everywhere.

But they were used to dust. Dust, sometimes, was part of the job.

The second thing that hit them was the smell. It made them take a step back. It was … rotten something and burned … something. It made his stomach roll and when he looked at Dean, his brother was looking pale and green.

"Dean …"

"'m good, 'm good."

But he could see and hear that Dean was not good. Not fine. Not awesome. Not anything, but three seconds from puking his guts out.

"Dean, why don't you stay outside for a while, 'm gonna air this out."

"Damn it man, just … get out of my way, okay? Let's just … don't treat me like 'm gonna break."

"Fine." He snapped back, because two could play this game of push, push, push until someone punches.

"Fine."

But Dean left the door open wide when he stepped into the cabin and when Sam turned around to see if his brother was still standing on his own two feet and not bending over to kiss the floor, he was _this_ close to saying 'do you have a tail?', but at the last second he shut his mouth. It was second nature for him to say shit like that, to take care of things when his brother couldn't or wouldn't; close the door, close _them_ in, protect the place they were in, so that it would protect them.

When their eyes adjusted from the bright sun to the murky darkness of the room, they saw that the cabin really wasn't all that much. Just a bed on their left, well more of a cot than a bed, because it was so tiny, they didn't know how someone was able to lie on it and be comfortable enough to actually sleep.

Although with hunters … they rarely slept. And if they did, they were too drunk to notice on what they were sleeping.

The walls were made of logs, they could see very clearly where one ended and the other begun and the space between was dusty. There were spider webs in all four corners of the ceiling, big ones, all gray from the gathered dust. Spiders obviously weren't big on housecleaning.

There was a table on their right and a small, tiny kitchen – just a sink and a cupboard - right in front of them. The 'bathroom' was outside, at the back of the cabin. Luxury at its finest. But still, it was better than being in a motel room, where everyone would be able to hear Dean. Then cops would come and probably take him to jail or a psych ward and they just couldn't have that.

So this was the next best thing. Sure they could camp out, park the Impala somewhere in the middle of the woods but Dean needed some comfort … and this cabin with its tiny cot would have to do.

"Wow, talk about cozy."

"Well it's the best we could find, so … get cozy, man."

"We don't have any electricity, man."

"Go grab some candles and a flashlight. And the lamp."

"What? Someone cut off your legs?"

"Hey, 'm walking wounded here."

It was meant as a joke, like everything Dean said was, but it stung. It burned. It hurt right in his heart. Because Dean was walking wounded, it was just a wound that couldn't be seen on the outside. It was a wound in the inside, poison crashing like a wave into the wound their Dad's death left behind.

Dean was a wound. A walking, talking wound that did not bleed, like a normal wound should.

"Okay … 'm goin'."

He closed the door when he got back from the car. Shut the outside world away and made the darkness envelop them for a second, before he turned on the lamp that ran on batteries.

It glowed blue.

He set it on the table and avoided eye contact with Dean who was sitting at the table.

He couldn't … his brother's skin glowed blue, as if he was frozen. As if he had suffocated.

Sam found some sheets in a wooden case that was hiding under the little table. They were yellowish from age and who knows what else with their edges torn, probably someone used pieces of them for bandages. God knows they ruined a lot of sheets in their time too. They smelled of mold, but they were still usable and far better than just have Dean lay on the exposed mattress – with a very suspicious stain right in the middle.

He put the sheets – two of them, just in case – over the thin mattress and looked at his handiwork. It would have to do. Dean taught him how to do a bed properly, so … if Dean wouldn't be satisfied by this … his fault, not Sam's.

"Niiiice…"

"Yeah well, either this or lying on the stain, man."

"Yeah, I'll always take moldy sheets over a piss stain."

"Ugh, did you have to say that out loud?"

"What? Piss stain? 's what it is, man. Just call it like I see it."

"Well don't."

Dean smirked, shook his head and walked away towards the table and the only chair there. They only had one chair. One bed.

A hunter's life was lonely.

But not theirs.

They always had each other. And Dad. But Dad was gone now. They were all there was.

Sam hoped that a day when one of them would only need one chair, one bed, would never come.

It was always two or nothing.

Or nothing.

There was literally nowhere for Dean to hide in this small room, when things would get bad. When the aches and pains would start devouring his insides. There was nowhere he would be able to run to, to get away from his little brother and scream himself hoarse. There was nowhere for him to go and hide and wail out his pain and cry and scream and punch at the walls.

He could go outside to the 'bathroom', that was actually just four really tall planks nailed together for privacy and a hole in the ground when one stepped inside. He could go there. Maybe.

He was so screwed. Just so, so screwed.

And Sam … Sam would have to watch him suffer, have to see him get overpowered by pain, watch him struggle to breathe and watch him howl with pain.

Damn it.

"Sam …" _you really can just leave me here._

"Dude, shut up. Just shut up."

Sam's eyes were full of 'suck it, brother you're stuck with me' attitude. It made Dean step back a little, because the sheer determination on his brother's face was a bit too much.

"Well okay then," he clasped his hands together, "we have any beers in this joint?"

"No booze for you, man. If Bobby finds the cure …"

He sighed: "Yeah, alcohol and girly flower concoctions don't mix well, I know."

"Yup, so just … maybe you should get some sleep. Before…"

Before shit hits the fan and gets crap all over the place. In about, Sam looked at his watch, an hour.

"Okay, sure. Not a bad idea."

He didn't know if he could sleep, but maybe he could just close his eyes. No harm in that. There was absolutely nothing he could do about this anyway, so … better to just get ready to roll with the punches.

He pulled the dry, bloodied napkin out of his nostrils and threw it in the sink. Maybe Sam would get a kick out of that. Probably not, knowing the little bitch, the kid would scream and call him a disgusting jerk, but … a big brother gets satisfaction in all forms and sizes.

He was sitting on the only chair in the room, the wood biting his ass, his elbows on the table and head in his hands. He was tired … the waiting game was slowly starting to get to him and he knew it had to be even worse for Dean.

Dean was never keen on waiting, waiting for him was like a stop sign, it made him twitchy and annoyed, because all he wanted to do was step on the gas and go, go, go.

But this … this was the worst kind of a waiting game. Because when it would end, it would hurt. Tear. And there would be nowhere to hide.

He knew Dean wanted him gone. Wanted to be alone. Didn't want for him to see him hurt like this, but tough … Sam wasn't going anywhere. Because Dean wouldn't go anywhere either.

The sound of his phone ringing in the dead silence of the small room made him jump up from the chair and he fumbled for the phone, the slippery little thing and managed to answer before the crappy ring tone could wake his brother up. He hadn't expected Dean to actually fall asleep, but he did. Started snoring lightly five minutes after his back hit the cot.

"Yeah?"

"Aha."

"Okay."

"Yeah? That simple."

"You sure there's no catch?

"Okay Bobby, okay. Good. That's really, really good."

He whispered even though he wanted to scream from joy. And horror.

"Thanks. No, I have that. We have all kinds of stuff in the trunk."

"Will call. Thanks."

He wanted to collapse on the floor and weep like a baby. The freakin' boulder that had been sitting on his chest rolled away and allowed him to take a deep breath. The warlock was smart, but they were smarter. They had Bobby. And Bobby had connections and knowledge and the warlock with his hundreds of years' worth of magic had nothing. Nothing.

Even if Dean wouldn't like it one little bit.

The trunk of the Impala was like a vault of crazy stuff stuffed in it. It held so many things; sometimes Sam thought it held the entire world of obscure in it. Everything. Just everything. Even dead, dried flowers. And dead, dried animal parts. And bones. And holy water.

And a cure for Dean. Well partial cure, the one that would delete all the horrible pain, but would not delete all the horrible nastiness Dean would still have to endure.

But it was better no pain than pain, so Dean would just have to deal with the nasty, gross part of his stupid, stupid stunt of touching that damn stick.

He shook Dean's shoulder – it was warm, hot even under the shirt - and smiled when his brother opened his eyes just a crack.

"Have coffee. Want some?"

It was a low trick, he knew, but still better than telling Dean about what his plan was.

"Coffee…"

It was like listening to a zombie call out for brains.

"Yummy coffee, come on."

He went to the table that held two cups; one black coffee and one black coffee with a kick of fizzy girly dead flowery concoction.

"How much time do we have?" Dean mumbled while fisting his eyes, trying to get rid of the sleep and the fuzziness. He was shuffling his feet all the way to the table and plopped down on the chair like it was a magnet and his ass was made of metal.

"Fifteen."

Dean whistled: "Damn time flies when you're _not_ having fun."

"Hmm, yeah. Drink up."

Sam felt like an ass. But it really was for his brother's own good. Otherwise he'd never have done it.

"How did you make coffee, dude?"

"'m a wizard."

Dean's eyes went huge.

"Dude, thermos. It's awesome and keeps stuff warm."

"Uhh… yeah…"

"Drink up, that's the last of it. No more hot drinks until …"

He felt like he belonged to Hell.

Dean put the coffee cup on the table, the black liquid sloshing over the top and sighed: "Sammy, you know what?"

"What?"

He slurred and blinked, trying to keep Sam in focus. "I think this coffee ain't just coffee."

He slammed his hands, palms down on the little, cracked wooden table making the coffee cup sway left and right, more coffee spilling out, making a hot puddle around his fingers.

"Dean?"

He could hear his brother's voice, deep and concerned somewhere in the space of the room, but he couldn't grab hold of it and use it as a focus point, like he usually did.

He blinked, trying to get rid of the fogginess that was eating up the edges of his vision, but it wasn't helping. There was fog; thick whiteness around the edges of what he could see ... it was coming closer, blurring everything.

He tried to stand up from the chair, leaning on his splayed hands and kicking the chair away to crash against the wall. He was swaying, wavering, gravity - or something else - pulling his ass down to the floor.

"Ssss'mmyyyh..." he slurred and blinked again, but the fogginess was still there and it was moving now. One second the table was a blur, the next he could see it clearly again ... the changes were so rapid, it was making him dizzy, stomach rolling and he gagged.

He was going to die. Whatever was in that coffee, he was going to die.

"Dean, hey, hey, Dean!"

He was by Dean's side as soon as the ratty chair shattered at the impact with the wall. His brother was a strong son of a bitch even when compromised.

He took two long steps towards his brother and grabbed him by the hand that was reaching out into space. The other hand, he had to unglue its palm from the pooling coffee.

"Dean, 'm sorry, but you're gonna be okay. Alright? You're gonna be just fine, I promise. Okay?"

"Sss'mmm?"

Dean's eyes were unfocused, pupils blown wide, all black, no green left. Little drops of sweat were starting to appear above his upper lip and at his temples, but sweat was okay. Sweat would help the poison move out of his brother's system.

"Yeah, man, 's me, come on, it's okay, trust me. Come on."

He gripped his brother's hand, fingers intertwined and hissed when Dean squeezed, grinding the bones in their fingers together. But that was okay.

He pulled and pushed his brother the three stumbling steps towards the cot in the room. He threw him on it: "Stay here, okay. Don't move." and grabbed his phone.

Bobby's number was on speed dial. And the man was probably waiting with his finger on the answer button.

"It's done. He's ... he drank it." he threw the phone on the table and sat down beside his brother.

Dean was so going to kick his ass to next year, when he would come back to himself.

He let his head fall between his shoulders and sighed.

It was gonna be a long night.

And the one chair in the entire place was broken.

It was broken.

But his brother wouldn't break.

He'd made sure of that.


	5. CHAPTER 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a bit gross, you've been warned.

"S'm?"

The word was a whisper, Dean's mouth probably too dry and too tired to form the word properly; three letters and Dean couldn't say them. Fuck, but this night would be never-ending.

"Yeah?" Sam sighed and turned to his left to look at his brother. Miserable. It was the only word that described Dean at that moment.

Miserable.

Sam twisted his fingers where they were hanging down between his knees, rubbed his left forearm, feeling nerves and excitement and sheer terror shoot through his body. It felt just like the adrenaline that he always felt before a hunt, going up and down his veins, but this wasn't that. This wasn't a hunt, this wasn't him having to shoot or burn something to a crisp and powder. No, the hunt was over already. This … this was the after hunt party. This was adrenaline mixing with fear for his brother. This was … this was his little brother cells gearing up for protection. This was his little brother heart and brain battling for domination; heart would comfort, while the brain would do tasks their Dad had installed in it.

First aid. Field medicine. How to handle your stubborn big brother and handle him well. How to make Dean comfortable without actually making him know what you'd be doing.

Sam could do that. For Dean? There was nothing he wouldn't do.

"Sss'my?"

Dean didn't look as if he was in pain; which was good, really good, because the 'curse starts working' mark had come and passed three minutes ago and Dean wasn't screaming in pain yet.

Good. Good. Okay. Sam could work with that. Could work with that just fine.

But Dean looked … blue. The glow from the lamp on the table made Dean's skin look as if all air had been sucked right out of his body and left only so much that he was still functioning.

Dean's face looked … ashen. The blue light combined with all the blood leaving Dean's face … it was as if looking at a ghost. And Sam had seen a lot of ghosts of all kinds of varieties, he'd seen bodies of people who'd been choked to death of who had drowned and Dean? Dean looked just like that. Blue. Gray. The skin around his eyes sunken, and with bags there as if his brother hadn't slept for days. Which probably, come to think about it, was the case.

But Dean wasn't a ghost or one of those bodies on cold slabs at the local morgue; the rapidly moving chest, the twitchy fingers trying to grab hold of the sheet and eyes squeezed as tightly shut as they could be were proof of that. Not a ghost.

Good, good. Sam could work with that too.

What he couldn't work with was a tear that slipped out of Dean's left eye – his brother probably didn't even know it happened, otherwise he'd already try to bat it away and pretend it was sweat.

What he couldn't work with was the strongest grip Dean had ever used on him; a hand clenched around his forearm, fingers probably leaving bruises on his skin that he'd wear for days. Apparently the threadbare sheet wasn't enough.

What he couldn't work with was Dean bleeding from his nose again.

"Yeah, man?"

Stupid question. Stupid, stupid, meaningless question, but Sam had to fill the silence somehow. And what better way to do so, than ask a trivial question that he wasn't even sure he wanted an answer to. He knew Dean was pissed, could see it written all over Dean's body, knew his brother would have some very good choice words for him when all of this would be over, knew that maybe Dean would throw some punches too for good measure, knew Dean would probably even make him clean up the Impala or something.

Fuck. But what else was he supposed to have done? What? Watch Dean be in pain? Listen to his brother scream? Die? He couldn't do that and he'd take any anger Dean would throw at him and take it with open arms. And after Dean would exhaust himself over this, Sam would just tell him that he would do it all over again if it would meant sparing Dean pain.

Dean would have to see reason in that. Right? The warlock had been good, damn fuckin' good, but Bobby had been better and Sam'd been better and Dean would be as good as new after the diluted – now that the cure was working – curse would leave his body.

"What," Dean licked his dry, blue lips, "hell, didja do?"

The words came out stuttered, choked on the need to know. On a need to not it be what Dean thought it was - his little brother poisoning him.

Sam hissed at the accusation in Dean's words - oh it was there all right, hidden in the tone of voice and the way Dean's lips curled. Were they in really such a horrible mess, that Dean would actually think that Sam would poison him? Really? After everything?

Sam swallowed and looked straight into Dean's tightly shut eyes; even if his brother couldn't see him, he had nothing to lie about and he'd say that to his brother's face, eyes open or closed, it made no difference, as long as Dean's ears were working just fine.

"'m sorry, I really am, but just trust me okay. Bobby came up with a cure, said it should work, so just ... just lay there 'n calm down."

He knew he wasn't giving Dean any reasons whatsoever to make his brother really calm and relaxed and take what would happen, but he just couldn't tell Dean what awaited him in the next few hours. But it sure as hell beat howling in pain that was for sure.

"What did you..."

And then it started. Out of the blue. No warning. Nothing. No full body shudder. No gasps. No groans and no whimpers. Nothing to give them both a warning that the cure would really, really start working at that precise second.

Nothing at all, but Dean raising up from the cot with Sam's arm as leverage, bending himself over until his head plopped down into Sam's lap and screaming: "Saaaaaaam!" as if a black dog tore off half of his torso.

Sam was ready for a lot of damn things, but this? Dean shouting his name into his lap, was certainly not one of them. No.

"Dean?!"

He tried to help, grab Dean somehow, somewhere, but his hand just hovered uselessly over Dean's arched back. He didn't know if he should touch, if he should pull his brother away from his thighs that were already getting wet with Dean's spit. Or maybe blood. Sam couldn't see, not with Dean being bend over like this.

It was all kinds of awkward and if anyone would've come into the cabin right this second, they'd have something to see.

And explaining to them that they were brothers, would probably just make people huff and say 'yeah, sure' in that way people do when they didn't believe a word you said.

Well, fuck them. Fuck them and fuck their Dad and fuck the warlock and fuck this whole case. This was exactly why he left and went to Stanford, all the way to damn California. So that he wouldn't have to watch his family die, watch them be hurt and bleed and listen to them grunt and groan in pain. Because his life was nothing but worry every second of every day and learning lessons he hadn't wanted to learn. He didn't want to go from case to case, hunt to hunt and be ordered around and when all that failed, be the one to pick up the pieces. He deserved better. His brother deserved better than this. Dean deserved so much better than lying on some moth eaten sheet on some shaky cot in some seventies reject little cabin, gripping his little brother's hand and drooling or bleeding onto his little brother's thighs. Dean deserved a family; a girl and a kid and a normal 8-5 job.

Sam placed his hand on Dean's back, right between two shaking shoulder blades and tried not to wince at the heat and the sweat there.

Dean deserved so much better than this. They both deserved better, but he'd learned the hard way that this, this was always going to be their lives.

Just them. The Impala. The road.

He pulled his fingers into a fist, bunching up Dean's shirt. It was all he could do to stop himself from punching the wall.

He took a deep breath and whispered: "Dean?"

When all failed, saying his brother's name was something that never, ever failed. It was a name Sam'd said so many times, more times than there were stars up on the sky. It was something that made things move, speed them up or make them either stop or start. Made Dean stop or start, depending on how his name was said. Especially if it was said by Sam.

And even now, it made things move. Pulled them from their stalled position and got the ball rolling.

Sam watched with wide eyes and a tremble in his hands as Dean slowly rolled to his right side, hiding his face, hiding himself, trying to spare Sam seeing whatever the hell Dean was going through.

It made something in Sam's heart pinch at that, at how his brother moved away from him, away from his _little brother_ , away from the little kitchen, away to escape and hide his body and head into the darkest corner of the cabin, where the blue light hadn't spread its glow yet. Away to the corner with a huge spider web up on the ceiling, one that was so big the spider must've been the size of a truck to have made it.

Having Dean's back to him shouldn't hurt this much, because _a_ Dean must trust him enough to leave his back unguarded and _b_ Dean must trust him enough to have Sam watch his back. But really, it just hurt, because Dean hid. He hid his body into a wall, and even if Sam knew this would happen, because duh, this was Dean, it still hurt. They've been through so much together in these two years since Dean got him from Stanford, so much when they'd been kids, that … his brother shouldn't feel as if he needed to hide. Not from Sam of all people.

Or from Sam exactly, of all people.

 _Damn it Dean_.

Sam was just grateful that Dean hadn't escaped into the outhouse.

Yeah, small miracles, because how the fuck would Sam get him out of there then short of tearing that thing down?

So he watched, not knowing what to do, how to help and if to help at all, when Dean suddenly got up on all fours – knees and forehead, swaying his ass left and right – and wrapped an arm over his stomach as best as he was able to in that position.

"Dean!"

Sam didn't know what to do, where to touch, if he should get up from the cot, if he should stay. Yeah, sure Bobby said it might hurt a bit, when the cure would really start to kick in and start to defuse the curse, but this … seeing Dean's whole body sway like a twig on a really windy day, back and forth was … not something he expected. Hell none of this was what he expected.

He hadn't expected the warlock to be … all that. He hadn't expected the hunt go as it had, he hadn't expected his brother to get damn cursed, he hadn't expected their Dad to die. He hadn't expected his life to be as it was, but hey, here he was now. So …

"Dean?"

He really didn't know if he should touch his brother, if the touch would hurt, if it would even be wanted.

Dean craved touch, Sam knew that, it was just a matter of delivering it. It had to be done sneakily, covered with other things, disguised. Like giving a kid broccoli disguised with potatoes. Or something like that. He wouldn't know anything about that. He always ate his veggies.

But maybe he should steady Dean in some way, because all that rocking and moving, couldn't be good. Could throw out Dean's hips … or something.

He – carefully and as slowly as he could – placed his hands near Dean's ribs. His left one on the left side, his right one on the right side and thanked all those veggies in the past that he had grown up to be tall and strong and that his arm was able to reach all across Dean's swaying back.

He didn't touch, though. Just half sat, half stood there like a moron with his hands inches away from his brother's sides, as Dean rocked back and forth on his forearms, forehead and knees making sounds Sam was sure Dean had never made. Not when they'd been hunting together, that was for sure. They were a mix of grunts and groans and whimpers and something in between. There was an occasional huff of air, that was probably meant to be a deep breath and a long exhale, but it all just came out like Dean was hyperventilating while having a whistle between his lips. There were no coherent sounds coming from Dean, no words or – what Sam really wished for – an explanation of sorts what the hell was going on and how he could help. There were just sounds; moans and drawn out letters 'a' and 'h' and some 'g's mixed in there.

Sam just hoped really hard that the cot would be able to handle the abuse it was so very surely gonna get tonight and not fall apart somewhere along the way.

That would suck, but hey … what in their lives had ever not suck? What in their lives had ever gone down smoothly? What? When?

And then Dean keened out an almost hopeless: "Sssssaaaam," groaned for as long as there was air in his lungs and when that was gone, fell down to the cot. Face down as if someone just cut off his legs and arms and left his torso to fend for itself.

The cot shuddered and made the exact same noise those damn doors do in the Impala and that probably wasn't good. But it held, though. Small mercies or maybe it was just sturdier than it looked.

Sam's hands were still hanging in mid-air, when Dean rolled on his right side, away, away, away further to the wall and the dark corner, away from his brother, pulled his knees as close to his chest as he could and hung his head off the edge of the cot.

It all happened so fast, so sudden, Sam was stunned. One second he was this close to get his brother to stop swaying, and the next he was looking at Dean's back and how the muscles were working under the shirt as if they were pushing a train up a hill.

"Dean?"

When in doubt, say your brother's name.

It was like a rule, a rule that he came up with in the darkest of the nights years ago and a rule he still went by until this very day. No matter how old he became and would become, Dean would still be named Dean.

Either six feet under or right there in the driver's seat, Dean would be Dean.

The old cot groaned and creaked under the weight then, the iron holding it together probably rusty and ready to give, but fuck it. If the cot would break, then so be it, but he wasn't leaving his brother. Not like this and not through this.

"Shit, Dean?"

Even if he knew exactly what would happen next – Bobby explained in great, disgusting details - panic still gripped his insides, because this was his brother and it wasn't normal. None of this was normal. It never was normal, ever since Dean was stupid enough to touch the warlocks stick or staff or what-the-fuck ever and get cursed.

With pain.

Only Dean could get cursed with pain. Jesus, but their luck just ...

Dean gasped. Groaned and coughed, as if he'd been smoking sixteen packs a day since he was three hours old.

"Dean?"

Sam stood up and leaned across his brother's body that was curled up to the extreme; it looked like a small turtle was lying on the bed and not his big brother. There was heat coming from Dean's back, the trembles shaking his brother visible like waves in the sea, and Dean's teeth and eyes were clenched together so tightly Sam didn't know how that was even physically possible. But it was.

He didn't like it, because if Dean would chip a tooth, his brother would make sure it would all somehow be Sam's fault. Which okay, yes, it kinda was Sam's fault.

Fuck.

He sneaked his right hand under Dean's head, supporting its almost dead weight and put his palm on his brother's forehead.

"Damn it." Dean was burning up, shivering and completely soaked with sweat.

Fever.

Swell. If the fever wasn't a part of the cure, then they were in big trouble. But it probably was a part of the cure.

Fuck. As if they didn't have enough problems already. Seriously.

He put his shins on the bed, straddling Dean's hips, the way his brother was curled up into himself there was absolutely no other way, and let Dean's warm forehead settle nice and cozy into his palm.

"You ain't gonna fall, man, I gotcha. Just cough it out."

He whispered to Dean, but mostly to no one in particular because he was pretty sure that Dean was in his own land at the moment. There was blood trickling out of Dean's nose, smearing all over his lips and chin and the smell of all that iron made Sam's stomach roll.

But only for a moment, because if there was something Sam was used to, besides Dean's crappy taste in music and food, it was the smell of Dean's blood. The feel of Dean's skin under his hand whenever his brother was hurt.

He put even more strength into his hand, ordering his muscles to get with the program, as Dean's whole head went limp and his head fell into his palm.

Sam really hoped Dean didn't just pass out, because if so, then they were in so, so much trouble.

But it began then; the cure working. It jolted Dean out of his little passed out spell he had going on there for a second, made his whole body arch as if he'd been struck by lightning and he began coughing. If Sam thought the little coughing thing Dean had a little while back ago was horrible, this … this was nothing compared to that.

Deep, bone rattling coughs, like someone who's been smoking for hundreds of years and had asthma on top of it. Dean's whole body shook and shuddered but Sam couldn't do anything about that. He could only hold on tight to Dean's heavy head, preventing his brother to crack open his skull on the iron sides of the little cot, or worse ... him choking on all the shit that he was starting to cough out.

And there was a lot of crap being coughed up and weakly spat to the floor. It would've been wise to get a bucket, but hindsight is twenty-twenty, so ...

But Sam was sure, the small, shaggy carpet could take it.

Shaggy? Who the hell decorated this place? T'was like they ended up in the seventies mixed with the eighteen hundreds.

Rufus must be some very odd cookie to have a place like this. But hunters really weren't well known for going all comfy about places they stay at. It's all about just bare necessities and this cabin obviously was a cabin used only for hunting or if someone in the nearby needed a safe place to crash. Comfort was mostly in having a cot and some sheets. And apparently a shaggy carpet. Okay, then. He didn't want to think about the fleas and the lice that maybe, perhaps lived in there.

He had more pressing matters to attend to, like the red sludge that was slowly dripping out of Dean's slack mouth down to the brown shaggy carpet.

Drop by drop by drop until there was a steady stream running down and whoah.

He was able to deal with the drops that Dean was obviously spitting down to the floor while he was coughing. The red sludge wasn't blood exactly; not the right color, not the right odor, not the right texture.

No, it was clearly the curse, the poison making its way out of Dean.

Good. That was really good.

"Good, Dean, come on, spit it all out."

Dean wheezed in a long breath, his throat burning and clogged with something that was seriously starting to piss him off. He couldn't breathe damn it, and he wanted to breathe thank you very much, because his lungs were already starting to burn and squeeze his chest into a sharp pain. And then Sam's words penetrated his brain, warm breath at the side of his face and a warm, steady hand against his forehead and he coughed. Used all the air he still had in him and coughed, dislodging whatever it was that was stuck in his throat. He groaned when it came up and then got stuck again.

Fuck.

He opened his eyes a crack, just a little bit, trying to see what exactly it was that was hanging out of his mouth, but all he could see through tear-filled eyes was a … girl.

He tried to push his body back, instinctive move – get away, get away – but Sam the fucker was too solid, too strong holding him in place.

The girl smiled, her head wet with blood, her hair standing up in tufts at some places and completely bald in others. He could see on her left side that she'd been scalped, and oh damn it.

He coughed again, trying to hack the fucking thing out of his mouth, push it out any way possible, sucking in some more air through his nose and coughed again, gagging on the red almost mud like stuff that started to run freely over his parted lips.

The girl smiled a toothy smile, blood running down her nose and cheeks, down into her mouth, smearing her teeth red.

"Jesus, Dean!"

Sam leaned even further toward Dean's hanging head, bracketing his brother's body with his legs, because there was no way he would let Dean or himself fall into the disgusting mess of a carpet.

And then he saw what it was that was giving his brother so much trouble.

There was … hair … hanging out of Dean's mouth, like a … a ponytail, all tangled together in small knots, wet from all the sludge that was pouring, literally pouring out of his brother.

"Jesus Christ."

Bobby said shit would go down and that Dean would be hacking up all kinda stuff, but this? This? Hair? What the …?

But he didn't have time to even think about it, couldn't, not with the way Dean's face was turning from blue to red to blue and all the veins on his neck were starting to bulge out. He grabbed the hanging hair and pulled, tugging on it and praying that it wasn't wrapped around anything vital inside of Dean, because he didn't want to pull out an organ or anything.

The hair was wet and slippery and it was like holding hair dipped in mucus, which sadly, he had experience with. Sadly. But that had been his own hair, which he himself washed. But this was … someone else's hair going out of his brother's mouth and the gooey stuff was a mix of saliva and god only knew what else and it was making him gag.

He grimaced and wrinkled his nose when his fingers gripped the ponytail tighter, really praying that he wouldn't pull any vital organ out of his brother and yanked.

Once.

Twice.

The fourth time was when it all came slithering out of Dean's mouth like a snake. He let go of it and it fell on the carpet with a wet squelch.

"Ugh, man..."

He wiped his hand in the cot's stained sheet and tried to take a look at Dean's face. It was a bit hard to do that, because of the way Dean's head was hanging down to the floor, but he saw his brother's eyes being open and his breathing was … kinda okay. A bit quick and wheezing, but better than no breath at all.

"Dean?"

He just wanted to know how Dean was doing. If he was still alive in there and if he would cough again, because he really should be conscious for that. Otherwise ... well hacking out another chunk of hair while barely conscious would really not be awesome.

But Dean didn't answer. Just coughed some more and puked some more red bile on the floor.

And then his muscles went on vacation and he became jell-o under Sam.

"Damn it man, next time keep your paws off things I tell you not to touch."

Damn it.

"Dean, hey! Wake up! Hey!"

He gripped Dean's left shoulder and shook, making his brother move on the bed like a rag doll. It would've been funny under any other circumstances, but these.

Dean passed out was not good. He could choke on the stuff that was clearly wanting to get out, he could stop breathing and he could …

"Dean!"

He ran his free hand all over Dean's face, wiping off sweat and tears and oh God, red spit and strands of hair that strayed from its path to the floor and got kinda stuck to Dean's lips. And chin.

Glued there with the quickly drying slime.

"Dean, wake up!"

But his brother was breathing, there was cold air hitting his hand when he wiped Dean's slack mouth, so that was good.

"Dean, damn it!"

He didn't want to panic, he really didn't, because he was a hunter, panic was never an option, because panic could get you killed. Or worse. But Dean wasn't responding. Wasn't making any noise, wasn't moving and Sam was practically laying on top of him, which should at least make Dean grumble and fight him off, but ... there was nothing.

It was eerie. The lamp with its stupid blue light wasn't strong enough, didn't give enough light for him to really asses if Dean was okay or what. He could've rolled Dean to the other side, to the side that was illuminated more by the light, but what if moving him would just cause more problems?

He raised his head up to the ceiling and looked at the spider web. It didn't give him any answers, just hung there in the corner. An unmovable death trap.

He sighed and looked back down; the floor was splashed with red bile, saliva and hair. Red hair. So much of it. Sam gagged and looked at Dean's face again, digging his chin into Dean's shoulder a little, because the floor ... the floor would need to be burned. Carpet first and then the wooden planks. Just burned into ash. They would need to get the axes from the trunk, hack the planks out and burn them. He didn't quite know how they'd tell Rufus that, but he'd jump over that hurdle when the time would come. Or maybe he'd just tell Bobby and hang up the phone.

He breathed and leaned his forehead on Dean's wet shoulder. When this would all be over, he'd need to go get Dean some dry, fresh clothes.

"Dean, wake up." he whispered and rubbed his forehead on Dean's shirt, to wipe away his own sweat.

And that's when Dean sucked in a huge gulp of stale air, leaned back over the side of the bed, dislodging Sam from his shoulder, nearly beheading him and nearly hitting his own head against the wooden wall.

If Sam hadn't locked the muscles in the arm that was holding Dean's head, Dean would split open his skull on the logs.

_Shit._

"Dean!"

His brother was coughing and choking again. The sounds were deafening in the otherwise completely silent cabin.

Dean started to grab air with his left hand, Sam didn't know what he was trying to touch, push away, pull closer. What?

"Dean!"

Dean was like a fish thrown out of water, gasping and flailing, flapping his whole body up and down the bed, nearly making Sam fall off him and the cot. There was a clanking sound from somewhere underneath the cot and he tightened his hold on Dean's forehead, wrapped his other hand around Dean's middle and let his whole weight fall on Dean's left side, pinning him to the mattress.

He felt bad for not allowing his brother any freedom of movement, but Dean really couldn't escape this, even if he tried. The cure would keep on working until everything would be out of Dean. Bobby said so. And he needed to believe Bobby, otherwise ... there would be nothing to hold on to, no hope, while his brother was thrashing all over.

"Come on, man, just don't fight it, come on!"

He yelled into Dean's ear, hoping that his brother could hear him over the roar of blood in his ears. He knew what Dean was going through, he had his share of puke fests caused by spells and curses and other non-weird things.

All he could do was hold on ... hold on tight to his brother.

There was another girl standing before him this time, her head completely without skin. Scalped entirely and her whole face bathed in blood. She was smiling, though and he tried to smile back, but he couldn't do it around all the coughing and the choking he was doing. Couldn't do it around the damn thing hanging out of his mouth.

"Come on Dean, come on!"

He awkwardly hit his brother between his shoulder blades, one, two, three times and hissed when Dean groaned long and loud and coughed again.

"'s it, come on!"

He leaned back down to see what Dean was struggling with now and saw a long, thick stream of bright red _something_ hang out of Dean's mouth.

It looked like it was kinda solid, although when he touched it, it felt like goo full of silky hair. It reminded him of crazy thin and long capellini no. 1, overcooked and left in the water for too long.

He was definitely not eating spaghetti anytime soon. Or any other kinda pasta.

"Oh, ugh, god Dean..."

He wanted to puke himself, but swallowed down the bile, gripped the wet hair hanging out of Dean's mouth and yanked. This was pure action now and action he was good at. Act, act, act, hunt, hunt, hunt, spy, protect, search, gun, knife, lighter. And hope it would be enough.

Dean groaned and coughed, trying to help somehow, in some way to get that thing out of him.

"'kay man, 'm here, I gotcha, I gotcha."

He needed to get that thing out of his brother, before Dean would strain himself too much and pop a blood vessel or something, because that would be just fantastic.

Sam tugged on the slippery thing again, cringing at how his fingers just went through the slime, and touched the gooey hair. It wouldn't budge, as if it was held back by something inside of his brother and he really, really hoped it wasn't an organ or something, because God knew where this stuff was coming from.

He really was going to puke.

That goddamned sick son of a bitch of a warlock. If he wasn't already dead, he'd kill him again.

He pulled again and hissed at the sound Dean made around the tail coming up his throat. Horse's tail.

Fuck his imagination.

"'m so sorry man, so sorry. Ugh, god 's disgusting, man."

He let himself fall completely on Dean's hip and side, not even caring if he'd break a rib or two. It was like CPR; break a rib its fine, as long as it gets the person back to life. Broken ribs were easy to fix, having his brother choke to death, not so much.

He tried to pull on the mass of hair again, but before he could pull, Dean's fingers weakly wrapped themselves around his wrist. They were cold, shaky and covered with slime.

"Dean, we have to get this out of you, okay? You hear me? I know it sucks, but come on, okay. I gotcha, I gotcha man, okay. Now come on, come on."

Dean made a noise Sam understood as a _hell yeah_ , _lets end this bitch_ and he tugged when he felt Dean's tug on the wrist.

The pile of hair moved a little, but it was still not budging enough for Sam's taste. He didn't like it. All of this needed to be done faster.

"Come on Dean, cough it out!"

They both tugged when Dean gave a 'go' sign by tightening his fingers around Sam's wet, slippery wrist.

"Come on, man!"

"Aaaaaaaaaagggggggghhgghhhhhggggg, fuuuuuck!"

The hair slipped out of Dean's mouth like it was oiled up (and it sure felt like it) and fell to the floor with a plop to mix with the other chunks already there.

The floor would burn. Burn.

"Okay, okay it's done, it's done now."

And he was sure of it, because that was the biggest and the longest chunk of hair ...

... it was done. It had to be done, because they didn't have the strength for more. Dean was spitting to the floor, big globs of red spit trying to get rid of it all although it would be awhile for him to totally get rid of the taste or the feeling of hair sliding up his throat.

"Dean, talk to me man."

"geroff."

"Okay, okay..."

He slipped his arm from beneath Dean's head and raised himself up on all four, hovering above his brother's shaking body for a bit and then he crawled off the cot.

And that was enough physical contact for the year. Maybe two years.

He went to find a trash can but all he found was a rusty pan and a small cracked ceramic cup that he filled with water. It would have to do.

He crouched before Dean, being extra careful not to step in or even look at the crap on the floor and placed the pan on the disgusting pile of disgustingness that had crawled up Dean's throat.

"Here man," he gripped Dean's shoulder and pushed a little, just enough to get his brother to look at him, "drink this. Can you hold it?"

"mmh yeah."

Dean's hand was trembling, his voice was hoarse, scraped raw by all that crap.

"Just spit it out, 'kay?"

Dean nodded and gurgled the water and spat it out. It came out pink, but it wasn't blood.

"'s not blood, Dean, okay? Just ... do that again a few times."

Sam knew that Dean wasn't all that present just yet, that he was still a bit out of it, maybe still in a bit of a shock, because one just doesn't spring back up after that kinda mess.

"Dean, you good?"

Dean's eyes when he looked at him were glazed over, glossy and red and so was his entire face.

"Okay man, come on, lie down, gurgle the water and spit in here."

He pushed Dean back to bed and gave him another pan that he found in the kitchen's drawer.

"Just lay there, okay? How you feeling?"

"'kay."

It was whispered.

"'kay as in all is well or 'kay for now?"

"Think ... 's done."

"Great, 's great man. Just drink the water, we got plenty, okay."

Dean nodded and drank sixteen of the small cups of water by the time he passed out again sometime at dawn only to wake up choking on more hair.

For hours. Hours. Dawn to late morning, late morning to midafternoon. There were spots of time; fifteen minutes, half an hour, twenty minutes, five minutes, when Dean could lay down and breathe and tremble his way into preparing for the next round. Somewhere along the way, they managed to get him into a new T-shirt, Sam had even found him a pillow. It had some yellow stain on it, that neither of them wanted to know what the hell it was, but it was soft and didn't smell all that bad and it allowed him to lay his head onto something softer than Sam's hand.

He was sweating, he was tired, he was hungry, he was thirsty, he was sleepy, he was so done with it all. He hurt and he ached and his stomach was trying to escape right out of his bellybutton - or so it felt like - and he couldn't stop moving on the cot, trying to ease the pressure and the ache he could feel - everywhere. Every muscle hurt, his fingernails hurt, his throat was on fire, his mouth was filled with short, thin strands of hair that he couldn't spit out fast enough. Some of it even got stuck between his teeth ... and he was done. He wanted to be done.

But the hair just kept on coming. Out of nowhere. Out of him.

Around four or so in the afternoon, he was humming Metallica while lying on his side, rocking back and forth, digging the fingers of his left hand into Sam's forearm, while he dug the other five into his stomach. Wishing to all that was holy that it would stop hurting. Stop making more hair, stop making him puke and choke and all but suffocate himself on the goddamn hair.

He felt the muscles in Sam's forearm shift whenever his little brother ran the wet, cool T-shirt down his face and neck, cleaning him of the red spit and stray hair that got stuck on his chin or lips.

He wasn't ashamed of how he was clutching at his brother. He was okay with it and he would live though the merciless teasing he'd get from Sam about it, but fuck it. One doesn't go for hours and hours, from night to shining sun to twilight puking up strings of red hair.

He had enough. He really had enough of this.

"samsamsamsamsam…"

There does come a time when even Metallica doesn't cut it anymore, and something more familiar has to take its place.

"I know, man."

And he was hacking up another string of hair, spitting it out in the pan that was already full to the brim, hair spilling out the sides of it and down to the already ruined carpet.

The girls wouldn't leave him alone, either. Every time he felt the need to puke, a girl appeared, smiled at him all bloody and happy and then puff, disappeared.

For getting rid of ghosts, this … this was so fucked up. He'd rather be out there, shoveling dirt from their graves and salting and burning them. That was his job, he was good at it. But this? This was completely fucked up and he'd told Sam that whenever he had enough air in his lungs to spare for words other than Sam. Samsamsamsam.

"But, hey man, this is better than dying of pain, right?"

He could only muster up one short glare and a: "Fuck you." before he was upchucking again.

But this time, the girl looked different. Newer. The last one. The last victim.

The very last one.

He absolutely did not allow a sob to escape after he let Sam pull out the last ponytail. He didn't. But he did groan and laid back on the cot, kicking Sam off it so that he was able to stretch. It wasn't fun being curled up so tight, for so long. His muscles were protesting, his bones were cracking when he moved his legs, his stomach was still rolling and felt as if someone had stitched half of it to his spine. But it was done.

"'s done." He gasped.

"Dean? You sure?"

"'s done."

He was sure. The last girl. It was done. He was done.

He fell asleep hugging weird-stain pillow and with the image of the last girl's peaceful smile, or as peaceful as a smile could be when a river of blood flows over small lips.

This was why they did this. The family business, saving people. Hunting things. No matter the cost.

_Dad's dead._

_He said that I might have to kill you, Sammy._

No matter the cost? Really, Dean?

His brother was annoying whether he was in his head or out in the real world.


	6. EPILOGUE

How strange the silence was, how strange the weariness in one's body was, how strange the lack of action was, when things settled down.

How strange it was to watch your brother finally, finally snuggle into a yellow-stained pillow and a blanket and rest. Sleep. After one whole day and half of a night of puking out centuries – thank God the warlock only took a few girls every few years – worth of hair, to finally have dust descent onto the floor, silence fill the room and give you some time to shake the adrenaline off your hands. And take a breath.

Sam had nowhere to sit, since Dean destroyed the only chair in the room so he sat on the table and tried to not look at Dean sleep; 'cause that would just be creepy. But he couldn't go at the floor with an axe, because that would wake up his brother, who needed sleep more than anything. He did carry out the pan filled with the hair and dumped it on the carpet that he dragged on the middle of the road. So that was good, and it had him occupied for all of half an hour.

But after doing that, he couldn't do anything else that wouldn't wake up Dean, but sit on the table and look at a wall.

And the spider web.

Maybe the spider would come back soon, because there was a fly that had gotten caught in the sticky web and was now making buzzing sounds trying to save itself. Dinner.

He was hungry, but the only thing there was, were some crackers God knew how old in the trunk. If they even were crackers, because that car held all kinda magical crap that needed to be concealed in everyday stuff. Just in case.

He was bored and the stink of the place made him open the cabin's door - with a salt line between the doorframes, of course – to let in some fresh, woodsy air.

They made it. Dean made it. Case closed, maybe not in Sam's head, because he liked to linger on things and talk about them, but in Dean's head, the case was closed, sealed and stamped 'Top Secret' in big red letters.

He looked at Dean – just to make sure the guy was still breathing – just when Dean's lips started to twitch and part on a: "Ugh …"

He didn't jump off the table and ran to Dean, because he knew his brother needed some space after all the not-space he had during the last hours. And truthfully, he needed some space himself too.

"You okay?"

"Uhhhhh…"

"I'll take that as a maybe. You need anything?"

"Wa't'r."

Sam could do that, he could give Dean some more water. It was a purpose, an action, something to do to make himself useful.

He handed Dean the cup filled with bottled - just in case - water and frowned at how Dean's hand shook when it reached for the cup.

But his brother was a stubborn mule if nothing else and he took the cup, spilled half of the water all over his chin, getting only a few drops to actually go into his mouth and down his parched throat.

"I'll get you some more and we'll try this again."

Trying it again meant Sam holding Dean's head up and all but pouring the water down Dean's throat. But it worked, got the job done and with some more water and some actual food to fill his brother's belly, Dean would get back on his feet in no time. Dehydration was Sam's biggest concern, but he could fix that.

But in the meantime …

"Get some more rest, all right?"

Dean was back to sleep, before Sam could lower his head back down to the suspicious pillow.

They wouldn't be going anywhere for a few more hours, maybe a day tops. Knowing Dean, he'd be up and at 'em really soon.

Sam looked at Dean's palms, where they were lying upturned on the sheet and saw how the cuts from the stick were gone. Vanished just like that. Huh. One more thing to write in their Dad's journal.

_Dad._

He didn't want to go there, not when Dean was out like a light and needed someone to watch his back. Forest's hide many things, not all peaceful, furry animals.

Maybe he should get some sleep, but just as he was about to go close the door and place the hatch in its spot, Dean grumbled something that sounded like his brother was gurgling nails.

"Dean?"

"D'zzy…"

Two steps, it took Sam two steps – long legs coming in handy – to be by the cot's side where Dean was just placing his legs on the floor.

"Okay, hey, hey, don't get up if you're dizzy, man."

He gripped Dean by his biceps and tried to keep him seated, wincing at how Dean's eyes were shut closed, his Adam apple working like crazy and his jaw clenched so tight not even a crowbar would be able to open it.

"Dean, it'll pass, all right? You gonna puke?"

Dean moaned a _no_ and then fell forward forehead hitting Sam's chest so hard, it made Sam take a step back, just to keep himself from falling on his ass.

Dean was a strong son of a bitch that was for sure.

"Whoa, okay, all right, let's get you back to laying, come on, on your side."

He pushed Dean back to the cot and arranged heavy limbs to a somewhat comfortable position.

"Dean, just take it easy for a while, we have nowhere to be, okay."

He didn't know if Dean heard him or not, but after a few seconds Dean nodded and shuddered.

"Okay, just get some more sleep."

"S-saw 'em all, Sam."

He leaned closer, because the words were a slurred whisper, too soft for him to hear.

"What?"

"The g'ls, s-ssaw 'em all."

Well, fuck then.

"They're at peace now, right, its over."

"mmmhhmmm…"

"All right then, get some more rest and then we'll hack out the floor boards and have a bonfire out on the road, how's that sound?"

"'a-aaw'sm."

"Thought so."

There was something to be said about wriggling your big brother, your very heavy, sleepy, not very helpful brother into something warmer to wear. Sure, the hoodie was kinda stretched out, too many years and too many washes, but still … it took guts, time and stubbornness.

But Sam did it, because he couldn't watch Dean shake so bad, his teeth chattered. In the middle of the summer. Well, late summer, but still.

"Need anything?"

"Piss…"

"Uhh…"

Well, fuck then.

And something needed to be said about shuffling your heavy, muscles turned to jell-o big brother to the door and three more steps to the side to help him piss.

Sam wanted to eat those crackers, maybe they were something to bleach his brain with.

Yeah, something needed to be said about both those things, but fuck Sam if he knew what.

"Ugh, 'm I dead?"

The question came around three in the afternoon the following day and it made Sam chuckle: "Yeah, no."

"Feel like it."

"You look like it too. Want some more water, something to eat?"

"Have 'nythin'?"

"Some crackers."

"Gimme."

He caved in and ate a cracker earlier - when he couldn't ignore his stomach grumble anymore - which surprisingly was a real cracker and nothing to be used in a spell. And it didn't bleach his brain, which was both great and not so great.

After they ate the crackers and listened to birds making a ruckus outside the front door, that were open – protected, of course – so that the sunlight could brighten up the inside, Sam cleaned his lap of crumbs and stood up.

There was work to be done.

"How you feeling? Dizzy? You hurtin' anywhere? You gonna puke?"

"'m kinda shaky, but okay, I think."

"Good, so how about those floor boards?"

Dean's grin told Sam that everything was picture perfect.

The crackle of wood burning was echoing through the night, summer in full swing, warm breeze and a cool beer.

The smell of burning hair would quite possibly be stuck forever in their nostrils, but … well … it really couldn't be avoided. They had to burn it, lay everything to rest. All those girls deserved it.

"If you ever do that again, man..."

Dean's voice was hoarse, words croaked out like a frog, and he probably wouldn't be speaking normally for a few days at least, which gave Sam something to be happy about. 'cause Dean not being able to talk much and for too long, meant that his brother wouldn't be able to shout at him for doing all of this to him.

Sam took a sip of his beer and smacked his lips in glee: "Saved your life, you idiot. Next time I say don't touch, you don't touch."

"Next time you put something in my coffee without telling me, I'll end you."

Sam snorted: "Dude, knowing you, you'd never allow me to give you the cure. You'd rather suffer."

"Damn fuckin' right, I would. Dude, I just upchucked years' worth of girls hair. Years. Girls. Hair."

They both gagged at the memory of it all and downed their beers like their life depended on it. Sam could still feel the slimy, gooey substance on his fingers and Dean could damn well still feel the – hair – tickle his tongue and lips, scraping its way up his throat.

"Dude, I can't even look at your hairy mug right now, 's just … just … cut your damn hair man."

Sam snorted and shook his head: "Dude, I had to touch that crap. Had to pull it out of your mouth then roll it up in the carpet and bring it all out here. Okay?"

Dean looked up at the sky, rolled his eyes and sighed: "Man, 'm gonna need something stronger than this beer."

"I used the Whiskey to start the fire."

"We all out?"

"Could be some in the trunk. I'll go look."

"Dude, you're not going anywhere near my drinks ever again! Sit your ass down and stay down. Watch the fire, those floor boards were weird, I don't want to set fire to the entire forest."

"Fine."

"Good."

He was three steps away from Sam and the fire when he turned around and saw the hunched form of his little brother, his broad back and strong shoulders – and all that hair - just sitting there, by the fire, waiting for something to drown the images of last night with.

"Hey Sammy?"

When his brother turned around and the fire hit his face just so, illuminating it red and orange, he saw his little brother. The little brother who saw him at his worst and was still his little brother. The little brother who would do anything for him. Stanford hadn't erased that.

"Yeah?"

He rubbed the back of his neck and smirked: "I promise I won't put anything girly or flowery or dead animal-y in the Whiskey."

"Bite me."

Dean's laughter scared an owl into spreading its wings and flying from a tree branch.

Kill his little brother? He'd off himself first. Dad might've been Dad, but if the man thought he'd one day kill Sam …

He zipped up the hoodie he woke up with a while ago and slid his hand over his baby's hood: "We're gonna keep Sammy safe, aren't we girl?"

He coughed and spat on the ground, knowing, just damn knowing that the feeling of ... hair... in his mouth would haunt him for some time. He was still finding it between his teeth and in his own hair. He even found some stuck to his chest.

He hunched his shoulders, hid his neck and hands in the soft hoodie and went to hunt down some booze.

Maybe that would help.  
  
And after all of this, maybe he'd tell Sam about what their Dad told him.  
  
Maybe.

**The End**

**Thank you for reading!**


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